


Howl of the Dragonwolves

by Elphaba818



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Daenerys past life and Jon past life, Daenerys will always be my queen, Dark Three-Eyed Raven, Dragonwolf Babies, Eventual Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, F/M, Jon Snow is Azor Ahai, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jonerys, Jonerys babies, Jonerys kids hate the Starks, Manipulative Sansa Stark, Minor Daario Naharis/Daenerys Targaryen, Night King has a backstory, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Past Jon Snow/Ygritte, Post-Episode: s08e06 The Iron Throne, R Plus L Equals J, Sansa is the Bitch of the North, Targaryen Babies, Targaryen Restoration, The Prince AND Princess That Was Promised, The Prince That Was Promised, The Princess That Was Promised, The War for the Dawn, Three-Eyed Raven has a backstory, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Time Travel begins at the end of Season 4, a song of ice and fire - Freeform, dystopian post-season 8, fuck D&D, fuck dave and dan, fuck season 8, no Mad Queen, original dragon(s) and direwolf(s), post-season 8 cruel Starks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:36:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 297,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21726907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphaba818/pseuds/Elphaba818
Summary: Nine years ago, the Mad Queen and the Queenslayer died and left their bastard twins grow up in the cold shadows of House Stark. Torrhen and Lyaella Snow know their parents never got the happy ending they deserved. Now they have the chance to change things. They'll set things rights. They'll ensure their parents win the great game of thrones. Or they'll die trying. TIME TRAVEL AU!Originally posted on FanFiction.net!
Relationships: Jon Snow & Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 490
Kudos: 667
Collections: GOT time travel fix it





	1. The Worst Nameday

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is the first story I have ever posted here on Ao3, but the first three chapters of this story are already posted on FanFiction, and my username is exactly the same as this one on Ao3.
> 
> As you can see, this story is for the fandom Game of Thrones. I think I speak for the entire GoT fanbase that what happened in the horror show that was Season 8 that D&D truly screwed us all over! I mean, COME ON! Dany goes down a downward spiral into the MAD QUEEN?! With only a snap of fingers?! UNREALISTIC! D&D had a shitty way of foreshadowing her abrupt change in behavior! Her ending in season 8 may have been subtly foreshadowed throughout the series, but there is absolutely no excuse for sloppy writing that was obviously rushed to finally end the series! DAMN YOU, D&D! YOU COMPLETELY RUINED GAME OF THRONES WITH YOUR BAD WRITING! What a waste of an incredible TV series!
> 
> I'm posting this story because I've been hard at work outlining for months now ever since GoT ended! This will correct the tragedy that was Season 8 with a little thing known as TIME TRAVEL! But Jon and Dany won't be the time travelers! No, we'll be seeing their CHILDREN travel back in time to change history for the better! This is NOT going to be your stereotypical Jonerys children time travelers story, either! These are NOT Mary Sue's or Gary Stu's! These are real character OC's! They have flaws! They have moments where they make stupid mistakes! They will not sit around agreeing blindly with everything Jon and Dany say and do! Some characters will love them, some will hate them! This is a REAL story!
> 
> This story would NEVER have existed at all if not for all the help I received while outlining it from authors of the other fanfiction stories:
> 
> \- The Long Night that was Promised by: Dakkaman777 (exclusively on FanFiction.net)
> 
> \- An Empire of Ice and Fire, Heart of the Blessed, My Father's Son, and A Terrible Resolve which were all written/co-written by Longclaw 1-6!
> 
> I would like to take this moment and say a personal thank you to both Longclaw and Dakkaman! I am beyond grateful to you both for all the time and help you've both given me this past year in helping me brainstorm this idea! Like I said up above, if not for the both of you, I probably wouldn't have been able to finish outlining this idea at all! Thank you both so, so much!
> 
> Readers, if any of you haven't read their stories yet, I encourage you to check out their stories when you're done reading my story! The above stories are all beyond words, they're so amazing! Seriously, you will not be disappointed!
> 
> I hope you will enjoy this story as much as I have enjoyed brainstorming it! Remember, when you play the great game of thrones, you win or you die! Well, Jon and Dany were CHEATED out of winning the game! This time, their children will make sure the odds will always be in their favor!
> 
> Please read and review! :D

“Is he here yet?”

“Can’t tell.”

“Maybe… Maybe he won’t come. Maybe he changed his mind…”

“After months and months on the kingsroad? Doubt it.”

“He’s an enigma… No one knows what goes on in his head. He… He could have changed his mind…”

“Well, maybe— no, wait. There he is.”

The little girl inched closer to her twin and peered out the window. Her gray eyes narrowed as they scanned the cold, dreary land of the North for whatever it was her brother could see. It took her a moment, but then she saw it. On the very edge of the horizon was a black dot on the kingsroad. It seem small and insignificant, but it was soon apparent that it was gradually growing bigger and bigger as it drew closer to their castle. And it wasn’t a dot at all. It was an entire retinue of armored guards, safely escorting a large wheelhouse that was rolling swiftly down the snowy path.

The girl sighed. Head hanging, she drew back the curtains.

“Hey!”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me. You’re not looking forward to seeing him again anymore than I am.”

The boy groaned, blowing hot air at a lone strand of black curls hanging over his eyes. “Can’t deny that.”

“I don’t get it… Why does he have to come every year?” the girl mumbled, twirling a strand of her long silver hair around her finger. “He’s a Southerner now. Southerner through and through.”

“Like the queen?”

She smiled lightly. The Queen of the North prided herself on her Northern heritage and hated everyone who wasn’t part of her kingdom, the only independent kingdom in all of Westeros. Comparing her to a Southerner was both insulting and one hundred percent true, considering she acted just like them. “Yeah, like the queen. He’s the king the Southerner’s chose, so why come?”

“’Cause it’s not about us. It’s never been about us. It’s about making a show out of the damn memorial service.”

“Tory.”

“Don’t get on my case just ‘cause I swore, Lya. You know I’m right.”

Lyaella sighed again, turning away from Torrhen to pad lightly across their small, shared bedroom. Pausing momentarily to gather up the skirts of her dress, she sat down on the edge of her bed and stared solemnly at her lap. “I don’t get why we’re required to go down and greet him with everyone,” she mumbled. “We shouldn’t have to…”

“You’re right about that,” Torrhen agreed, sitting down beside her. “Why don’t we just don’t go down?”

Lyaella’s head snapped up. “What?”

“You heard me. Let’s skip it. We shouldn’t have to go down there, you said so yourself. And besides, what’s the point? We’re just gonna get shoved in the back row like every year. Heck, we’re not even gonna properly greet him like the queen will when he gets here! At least not for a few hours, anyway. We don’t care about greeting him, period. So let’s just skip it.”

Lyaella bit her lip, the pros and cons of being intentionally rude by skipping the welcoming party down in the castle courtyard weighing heavily in her mind.

“It… It would be nice, staying warm here inside… but what about-”

A sharp knock interrupted her. They turned in time to see their bedroom door slam open, revealing a rather furious serving woman.

“Oi, you two!” she snapped. “You’re supposed to be downstairs! The queen’s looking for you brats! Get moving!”

Lyaella cringed from the harsh tone, her eyes blinking several times to ensure they’d stay dry. But Torrhen matched the servant’s glare with a fiery growl, violet eyes as sharp as steel.

“Why should we care the queen’s looking for us?” he asked, fists balling up tightly. “She’s not our mother.”

The servant’s face puffed red, pure disgust radiating off her in waves. “Aye, she’s a far better woman than your foreign whore mother ever was! You two will obey her commands or so help me I’ll smack that glare off your face, boy! Go down to the courtyard! Now!”

“Just try it, lady! You’ll have to-”

“Let it go, Torrhen.”

“But Lyaella-!”

“Please.”

Seeing the dejected frown on his sister’s face as she stared sadly at the stone floor was the only thing that could quell Torrhen’s anger. With a huff, he shot the serving woman another glare, then stomped to the wooden wardrobe in the corner. Finding a simple light gray cloak with white fur around the collar, he tossed it to Lyaella and then pulled out a second cloak, this one pewter gray with black fur trimming.

“The queen told me to make sure you two wear the direwolf cloaks she had made for you both. Put those one’s on.”

The wardrobe door shook from how hard Torrhen gripped it. The direwolf cloaks? The queen wanted them to wear the direwolf cloaks?

He whirled around, mouth already half open to tell this woman just what she could relay back to the queen about those horrible cloaks, but to his surprise Lyaella was standing directly behind him and quickly grabbed his hand. Avoiding the servant’s gaze, she dragged Torrhen behind her as she breezed past the woman out of the room, not daring to look back. Hurrying down the stone passageway, she didn’t dare release his hand until they both turned the corner.

Needless to say, Torrhen wasn’t too pleased. “Why’d you stop me from yelling at her? I could’ve handled her smacking me.”

Lyaella simply smiled. “Because she would’ve done that and still forced us to wear those stupid cloaks. A fast exit was the only way we were leaving our room with these one’s. And besides—” small fingers reached into the collar of her ice blue dress, intricate snowflake designs embroidered in shiny silver thread near her throat “—we’ll be saying a lot more to the queen by appearing quietly with our current cloaks than we would if we shouted at her in those direwolf ones.” She tugged out a small silver pendant, the charm resembling a roaring dragon with three heads. Freed from the confines of her dress, the tiny silver dragon dangled directly over the clasp of her wool cloak, it too being silver and shaped like a snowflake.

Torrhen blinked at her logic, then quietly snickered. “Wish I’d gotten your brains,” he chuckled. Unfastening his own silver snowflake clasp, he shrugged off his cloak as they continued down the corridor. Tossing it to his sister temporarily, he adjusted the black training sword belt looped around waist so that the three-headed dragon emblem stitched into the leather of the scabbard would be easily visible to onlookers. “Think the queen will explode?”

“Either that or she sends us back up to change and we miss the official welcome for King Bran anyway.”

“Seven hells, you’re a genius!”

Down a flight of stairs and two more turns down another corridor, and they found themselves outside in the Winterfell courtyard. The courtyard was already packed with many visiting Northern lords and ladies, all waiting patiently for the arrival of the yearly visit of Bran the Broken, King of the Six Kingdoms in Westeros all south of the independent Northern kingdom. More importantly, King Bran was the younger brother of the Queen of the North, hence the only reason why all the Northern lords and ladies were chatting happily amongst themselves as they waited for their fellow Northerner to arrive. That being said however, the overall number of visiting Northern nobles were significantly lower this year than in the past. It didn’t surprise Torrhen and Lyaella all that much though, not when they overheard some Stark bannermen talking the other day about how many of the lords and ladies refused to give the queen any of their precious stock from their grain stores for the yearly feast after the memorial service tonight. Not when they and the smallfolk were currently starving from the famine in their country.

Despite how the children tried to keep their arrival on the down low, people always seemed to have a sixth sense whenever they were nearby, and all at once everyone in their nearby vicinity was immediately glaring at them. Torrhen glared back, but Lyaella cringed.

“Look everyone,” an unknown voice in the crowd called out. “The Snow’s are here.”

Torrhen’s hands balled into fists, and Lyaella averted her eyes.

“You two have a lot of nerve showing up late!” sneered a second voice. Whoever it was, it sounded like a woman. “The bastards of the Mad Queen and Queenslayer should be humbled just to live in this castle thanks to our queen’s generosity! You should’ve been the first one’s here!”

Lyaella squeezed Torrhen’s hand, silently begging him to stay quiet. It took all the willpower Torrhen had to say nothing.

“Bastards belong in the back,” a grumpy-face lord growled, thumbing over his shoulder at the back-most row. “Get back there and stay quiet!”

Growling, Torrhen stormed to the back of the crowd, eyes focused straight ahead of him to keep from actively glaring at anyone in particular. Lyaella had to hurry to keep up with him, keeping her head bent so no one could see her lower lip trembling.

Fumbling to the very end of the back row, Torrhen glanced around to see if anyone was still actively glaring at them. Seeing no one still throwing them dirty looks, Torrhen seized Lyaella’s hand and began carefully edging backwards.

Lyaella threw him a quizzical look. “Tory-?”

“Shh! Keep your mouth shut and casually look over your shoulder!”

Lyaella blinked, confused, but did as he said. Her eyes immediately widened in delight. Torrhen had chosen the best place in the entire back row for them to stand: the entrance to the kennels. She smiled brightly, muffling a small giggle behind her hand as she glanced back at her brother. “You’re the smart one now.”

Torrhen smirked. “Just keep creeping back slowly. If we’re lucky, we’ll can sneak inside and wait out the welcome with-”

A bounding blur of black darted out from the kennels, pouncing at once onto Torrhen. The boy shrieked, fumbling to the ground. But instead of instead of being afraid, he laughed with joy.

“Shadow!” Torrhen cheered, the black direwolf’s tail whipping swiftly back and forth as he peppered his boys’ face with endless licks. “Ugh! Shadow, stop! That tickles!”

Lyaella giggled, quickly diverting the friendly wolf’s attention to her. She eagerly cuddled and ran her hands through their dear friends’ black fur. “Shadow, how’d you escape your cage? You should have come find us first, or helped Sōnar get out.”

Shadow responded by climbing off Torrhen to press himself lovingly into Lyaella’s side, nuzzling her whole body with his as he licked her hands. Shadow was only half grown even for a direwolf, reaching only the height of the twins chests, but he still was as fearsome as any other wolf that one might come across. With thick matted fur as dark as a real shadow and eyes as red as rubies, a single growl from the beast while flashing his snow white fangs was more than enough to scare anyone who dared to anger him. But not Torrhen and Lyaella. No, to the bastard twins, he was their more than simply their pet. He was their friend, packmate, and brother. The only connection they had to their long gone father with the detested Stark family that they didn’t mind having such a connection to. But he was mostly Torrhen’s companion. Shadow would protect either child with his life, but between the twins, Torrhen was the one he loved more.

Between hurrying from their tower bedroom by the servant’s demand and now getting slightly overexcited by seeing Shadow out here in the cold Northern climate, Lyaella could feel herself breathing heavily. There was no cause for alarm yet considering she knew what heavy breathing sometimes led to regarding her personal health, but still there was slight difficulty for her to catch her breath. With one final pat to Shadow’s head, Lyaella straightened up, offering Torrhen a hand to help him up to his feet. “What are you trying to say, Shadow? Are you telling us Sōnar’s lonely and wants love too?”

A low whine escaped the small direwolf’s throat. He butted his head against her legs and did the same towards Torrhen, and then snapped his head around to stare directly at the entrance to the kennels.

Torrhen ran his fingers through Shadow’s fur. “Good boy, Shadow. Always tell us if Sōnar’s lonely or desperate for freedom.”

The twins started towards the kennels, but a sharp voice cut through the air, stopping them before they could take more than two steps.

“Torrhen, Lyaella.”

The children froze. Exchanging mild looks ranging from an irritated scowl from Torrhen and a tired sigh from Lyaella, they turned around.

Approaching them was a tall woman with fiery red hair and icy gray eyes. Her features were sharp, signifying to all that she was not someone to be trifled with and would meet fire thrown her way with all the iciness that the North was known for. Her gray dress was such an ugly color, but with intricate embroidery around her bust to make it almost resemble armor and red weirwood leaves hand-stitched into the hem of her skirts, it would almost make her look quite beautiful, if not for the severe frown on her face coupled with furrowed brows.

She would be no different than any other woman Torrhen and Lyaella knew who was always snapping at them, but between the handcrafted silver direwolf crown on top her head and the gray direwolf cloak draped over her shoulders, it made all the difference in the world.

Biting their tongues, the twins both nodded respectfully. “Your grace,” they said together.

The Queen of the North, Sansa Stark, was silent for several moments, looking them both over with a seemingly emotionless mask to all watching. But it wasn’t emotionless, at least not to the twins. Torrhen and Lyaella knew all the masks the Queen wore when she was in public. This was her mask for whenever she was displeased.

“You’re late. Both of you,” she finally said. “And you’re not wearing your direwolf cloaks. Why?”

Torrhen focused his gaze solely on the two screaming direwolves that made up her crown. Focusing on that was the only way he could stand speaking to her without losing his temper. “We took a while leaving our room.”

The queen’s nostrils flared, but Torrhen said nothing further. One more word and he wouldn’t be able to stop his lips from curling into a smirk. Lyaella had to pretend to scratch her nose to hide the smile she felt rising on her own face. It was a half-truth, after all.

“And your cloaks?”

“We didn’t want to wear them.”

Queen Sansa’s lips pressed together in a thin line, her red hair looking like true fire in the wintry breeze to match her concealed rage.

“W-We’re sorry if we offended y-you, Queen Sansa,” Lyaella said respectfully. “We’ll… We’ll stay out of t-trouble during the official welcome towards K-King Bran.”

There was a momentary pause, but then the queen’s minimal displeasure finally melted away, and she nodded in approval.

“Good. I expect you two to be on your best behavior today. Now, follow me.”

She turned sharply on her heel, and began marching back to the front of the assembled crowd. The twins blinked and didn’t move. Sensing that they weren’t following her, Sansa abruptly spun back around.

“Torrhen, Lyaella,” she said again, slightly sharper this time. “I told you to follow me. Now.”

Torrhen blew hot air. Folding his arms sullenly across his chest, he started off towards the queen, Shadow trailing protectively at his heels. Lyaella followed quietly, but walked at a slightly slower pace. Her chest felt tight and she knew every breath had to be measured carefully if she was to make it through whatever it was the queen wanted to do to them as punishment for being deliberately late.

Upon reaching her prior spot at the head of the assembled lords and ladies, Sansa waited until the children were before her along with the small direwolf. Seeing the wolf, she pursed her lips slightly and briefly shut her eyes.

“Why did you let Shadow out of his cage? I instructed you two to keep him locked up over the next few days. Did you let Sōnar out too?”

“N-No, Queen Sansa.”

“He came out of the kennels on his own.”

“I see, well return him to his cage now before-”

“Your grace! King Bran’s party has entered Winter Town!”

Queen Sansa closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and then nodded to the Stark bannerman who had relayed the message. “Thank you, Rodrick. Please, return Shadow to his pen immediately.”

“As you wish, your grace.”

“Your grace-!”

“Queen Sansa-!”

“We will not have animals running aground when King Bran comes into this courtyard. That is my decision, and my decision is final.”

Torrhen fumed, his temper steadily rising as the Stark guard forcibly signaled his beloved direwolf to follow him back to the kennels. Even Lyaella couldn’t help but scowl at this. Turning back to the queen, it took all of Lyaella’s strength to not raise her voice beyond its usual meek tone.

“We apologize if… if w-we upset you, your grace. T-Torrhen and I will go back t-to our spots now.”

They turned to go, but the queens’ hands planted themselves firmly on each of their shoulders.

“I never said either of you were to go. You’re to both stand right here beside me as our guests arrive, Torrhen, Lyaella.”

The twins’ anger melted away, befuddlement overtaking them just as it had to everyone else gathered in the crowd.

“What?”

“W-Why?”

Lips curled upward, forming a smile that appeared to be a mix between formally polite, but also a subtle smirk. “I am the queen. Do not question my decisions.”

While a few of the stuffier lords and snobbish of ladies made a few more distasteful murmurs, the rest of the crowd held their tongues for the time being. But for Torrhen and Lyaella, they inched closer to one another as they were forced to hold their ground beside the queen they detested.

“Is this… punishment for being late?” Lyaella whispered.

Torrhen shrugged. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it was…”

Moments later, two mounted riders rode into the Winterfell courtyard from the main gate atop ebony black horse, both of them dressed in shiny gold armor bearing the emblem of a lone bird in mid-flight. The first was a woman with short, flax-colored hair and unusually taller than other women, but the other was a young man several years younger. Regardless, they both appeared to be seasoned warriors, and although they nodded and smiled politely to the Queen of the North, their main focus was on anticipating any possible threats that could be present amongst those in attendance.

The Ravensguard knights. The Lady Commander Ser Brienne of Tarth, and fellow Ravensguard knight Ser Podrick Payne.

Following them into the courtyard was a lone wheelhouse, drawn by two more black horses, and several other loyal Ravensguard knights followed behind it as well as protected a second smaller carriage. No one in attendance paid close attention to the second carriage, as it most likely housed only a few occupants that weren’t knights or otherwise good with long-distance travel on horseback. It was the arrival of the first carriage that was the most important.

Without a word, Ser Brienne and Ser Podrick dismounted their horses and approached the grand wheelhouse. Opening the carriage door, they both vanished inside. Several moments passed in relative silence, but then they both reappeared. Ser Podrick came out first, carrying with him a rather large ramp made entirely out wood and with many intricate birds carved beautifully into its sides. Holding the ramp steady, he placed it at the main step leading out from the carriage and onto solid ground and kept firm hold on it so it wouldn’t budge. Once done, Ser Brienne made her own reappearance, but unlike Podrick, she was not alone. She was pushing the hand holds on the back of a wheeled chair down the ramp, and in the chair sat a young man. King Bran.

Torrhen leaned in close to his sister. “What type of king needs to be helped out of a carriage?” he whispered jokingly. A distinct cough escaped Lyaella’s lips which she tried to hide behind her hand. To Torrhen and those nearby who had heard his comment, it was apparent she was muffling a giggle.

“Torrhen, Lyaella,” Sansa hissed, fighting to keep her tone low. “Remember your manners.”

The twins piped down, but they weren’t at all happy about it as Ser Brienne pushed the crippled king towards the Northern queen. Torrhen sulked, lower lip puffed out as he eyed King Bran with open disdain, but Lyaella was standing very rigidly, keeping her fists balled up tightly.

King Bran was a mysterious fellow. Like Sansa, he was a Stark, so he too wore a heavy winter cloak with direwolf fur around the collar to proudly display his noble house as well as for warmth, but unlike his sister who wore only gray as it was the house colors, he was dressed solely in black. His cloak was black, his breeches, formal tunic, gloves, his boots, and even his crown. A crown with the main symbol in the front being that of a three-eyed raven cawing and spreading out its wings. It was eerie, all the black, but not nearly as eerie as his physical features. Auburn bowl cut hair, thin lips, overly long nose, crippled from the waist down hence his need for the wheelchair… Aside from being crippled, he still could have come across as relatively ordinary… if not for his expression and eyes. As the younger brother to the Queen of the North, King Bran’s eyes were also Stark gray, but there was no form of life anywhere in his gaze. They could see, but they didn’t actually look at someone, but rather through them. His entire expression was completely monotone. The king was alive, but with a face that only on rare occasions ever showed any sort of emotion, he was no different than a lifeless doll that could speak.

Ser Brienne wheeled him directly in front of the queen. There was a brief pause as the two monarchs stared at each other.

“King Bran,” said the queen with a polite smile and respectful head bow.

“Queen Sansa,” said the king with a monotone voice and two blinks.

A second brief pause, but then a genuine smile appeared on Queen Sansa’s lips, bending over a bit to give her brother an affectionate hug.

“Welcome home, Bran. Winterfell is yours, your grace.”

“Thank you. It’s been a long journey.”

It was only on rare occasions that the Queen of the North would ever show this amount of genuine emotion of something other than annoyance while in public. And every year, it would always knock Torrhen and Lyaella for a loop when it happened.

“I’ve already had the servants get your old room prepared. I’ll escort you there myself to freshen up at once,” said the queen. There was a pause, seeming to consider herself, and she solemnly spoke again. “Unless of course you wish to visit the crypts, first?”

King Bran stared at her for a long moment, and then slowly shook his head. “No. That is unnecessary. I would like to go to the godswood.”

“So soon? You only just arrived.”

“I am the Three-Eyed Raven. I need to see. I will visit the crypts with you and Arya after. Go greet her.”

Sansa wasn’t the only person there to blink in surprise at that last sentence. “Arya hasn’t arrived yet, Bran. You arrived first.”

“No, she is here,” Bran insisted, his monotone voice still not revealing any form of emotion. “She arrived hours ago. She is watching us now.”

The queen stared at him for a few moments, but then spun around to search the faces in the gathered crowd. “Arya! Where are you? You didn’t come to greet us the moment you arrived? Come out! Arya!”

Speculative murmurs and questionable chattering spread through the crowd, everyone immediately looking around restlessly for any sign of Arya Stark, but for Torrhen and Lyaella Snow, they were focused solely on themselves and on the two Stark’s standing before them.

“Typical,” Torrhen muttered, rolling his eyes. “Lady Arya making a big show out of being ‘no one’ in a huge crowd.”

“Mm-hmm,” Lyaella said vaguely, really only half listening. Her hand was on her chest, and her expression had become rather fixed and tight.

“Why do you suppose she acts like that, anyway? Do you think she enjoys being alone all the time?”

“I… I don’t know…” Lyaella mumbled. It was taking all her willpower just to continue speaking, what with how harshly her one hand was pressing into her chest.

Torrhen didn’t notice though, as he was too busy glancing around at all the faces in the crowd. “We should ask her that when we see her. Ask if she enjoys being-”

A small, barely audible cough cut him off.

Torrhen’s head snapped at once to Lyaella, only now seeing how rigid and pained her expression had become and how her hand was literally clawing at her chest.

“Lya?”

“I… I’m fine, Tory. It’s nothing.”

Torrhen didn’t listen. He just stared at her, expression unreadable. Sparing a quick look at the Northern queen and crippled king to confirm they hadn’t noticed her cough yet, he casually stepped in front of her to shield her from their views.

Lyaella tugged on the back of his cloak to get his attention. “Tory,” she whispered, sounding rather tired and breathless. “I… I told you, it’s-”

“It’s not nothing, Lya! It’s your ‘bad’ cough!” he whispered harshly. “Do you want them to see you and send you back to Marlon?!”

“It… It literally just s-started. It’s only a… tickle in m-my throat right now, s-so I’m fine, really! I… I don’t need Maester M-Marlon…!”

“Maester Marlon is a healer, Lyaella. It’s incredibly foolish of you to hide your cough when he can help you.”

Torrhen, Lyaella, and just about everyone else in the crowd aside from King Bran jumped. Because the words that were spoken were not said in a hushed whisper by young Torrhen Snow, but in a clear, strong voice of a young woman.

The twins quickly turned. Standing behind them was none other than the final Stark sibling that had returned to Winterfell for the yearly memorial for the Long Night war: Lady Arya Stark.

Unlike the Queen of the North and the King of the Six Kings, Lady Arya wore no crown or fine dress to display her wealth and status as the sister to two monarchs. She preferred to wear breeches and tunics like any young man, and instead of a heavy cloak with direwolf fur trimming weighing around the collar, she wore a cloak that allowed her free movement with her arms so she could reach either the dagger or thin sword attached at her hip at a moment’s notice if need be. If it weren’t for the fact that the said cloak had slight hints of wolf fur stitched into it sporadically throughout the design, one wouldn’t assume she was a Stark at first glance at all, what with her dark brown hair compared to Queen Sansa’s and King Bran’s auburn locks. She had the characteristic gray eyes, but that was it. She held no other family resemblance to either of her siblings. It was said that back when the whole Stark family was still alive, Lady Arya was said to be the only true-born Stark to have inherited the classic Stark features like the late Eddard Stark while her other true-born siblings took after their mother Catelyn’s features of House Tully in the Riverlands with their flaming red hair.

Out of all the Stark children who looked up to the late Eddard ‘Ned’ Stark as their father, there was only one child who had inherited the Northern features of the Stark’s of old. And he hadn’t even been a real Stark.

“Arya,” said the queen, quickly regaining her regal composure. “You’re here.”

Lady Arya smirked. Giving the twins quick pats on the shoulders, she sidestepped around them momentarily to give her elder sister a quick hug. “Of course. How could I miss it? It’s a very important day, I’ll have you know.”

“Indeed. We cannot have a good remembrance ceremony for all those who died without the Hero of Winterfell here for the memorial service.”

A great many cheers rose up from the crowd, the Northern lords and ladies eagerly clapping and calling out their delight upon seeing their hero.

“Lady Arya!”

“Hero of Winterfell!”

“The Wild Wolf!”

Despite how the younger Stark daughter followed none of the social norms appropriate for women of noble birth, the lords and ladies of the North held a great deal of respect for the free-spirited Arya Stark. Adventures and wild to the core, she was the one who saved them all at the end of the Long Night during the final battle at Winterfell. But more importantly, she had done so by being the one to kill the haunting Night King when he was about to kill Bran. Trained in Bravossi Water Dancing swordplay style, she was deadly with her sword Needle and even gone to Braavos for a short time in her youth to train as an assassin with the Faceless Men. She alone was the sole Stark who had sought justice by Stark hands for all the atrocities committed against House Stark by those who had harmed the family during the terrible War of the Five Kings so many years before the Long Night began. Atrocities which led to the deaths of her father Ned Stark, her mother Catelyn Stark, her eldest brother and the family heir Robb Stark who’d been crowned as the first King in the North in thousands of years following how the North decided to break ties with the rest of Westeros after Ned Stark had been imprisoned and later executed under false charges of treason, and even indirectly led to the death of the youngest child Rickon Stark, her youngest brother. Training with the Faceless Men allowed her to gain the skills she needed to avenge their deaths, as the infamous words of House Stark say, she made sure Winter Came for those who had harmed the Stark clan.

So even if she didn’t wear a crown, Arya Stark still commanded respect. After the Long Night was over and her siblings had been chosen as King of the Six Kingdoms and Queen of the North, it was said that she chose to set sail west of Westeros to see what lay beyond the known world. She was an explorer to the core, and was officially considered to be the only known person in all of Westeros to have ever returned from the journey across the Western seas.

All lovely accomplishments and it was clear why the Northerners adored her, but for the bastards Torrhen and Lyaella Snow, there was nothing worth cheering about when it came to Arya Stark. She was as rotten, cruel, and downright evil on the inside as Queen Sansa and King Bran. Even now, when Lyaella was struggling to hide her coughs and Torrhen was trying to discretely hide her behind him so Queen Sansa and King Bran wouldn’t see, they could not find it in their hearts to let go of their hatred towards House Stark. They stared at the only surviving true-born Stark’s without a single shred of love or compassion in their hearts.

Because House Stark held no honor. House Stark was a house made up of power-hungry liars, manipulators, and murderers. Kinslayers.

Arya frowned at Queen Sansa’s words. “The memorial service is important, but I’m not talking about that. Today’s important because it’s Torrhen and Lyaella’s nameday.”

Without waiting for any sort of reply, she spun around and gathered the twins in her arms, hugging them tightly.

“Happy nameday, little wolves! How are you? Have you missed your favorite aunt?”

The twins made no attempt to reciprocate the hug, but instead did their best to squirm their ways out of it. It would have been considered highly insulting by those watching, but upon hearing Lyaella go into an extreme coughing fit and then witnessing Torrhen trying to break free of Arya’s arms so as to pull Lyaella away from her, realization spread throughout the crowd.

“Lyaella,” Sansa exclaimed, slight surprise in her voice. “Are you all right?”

It took all of Lyaella’s self control to swallow her body’s instinct to cough again and forcibly nod. “Y-Yes, your grace… It w-was only a few coughs. I’m… I’m f-fine.”

“No, you’re not. I’ve been watching you two since you first came outside. You’re feeling tight chested right now,” Arya insisted. “You shouldn’t hide your symptoms. Maester Marlon is here for a reason: to look after the sick and injured. If you’re feeling sick, you go to him.”

“But-”

“No ‘buts’ Lyaella,” Queen Sansa interrupted. “Formerly greet King Bran and Lady Arya then report straight to Maester Marlon. And Torrhen? You greet them, too.”

Lyaella frowned. She hated her weak lungs, occasionally causing her coughing fits and chest tightness before she became unusually short of breath even when she hadn’t been playing or exercising. Why was she the only one in Winterfell to have this problem? Their Stark uncle and aunts didn’t suffer from this, Torrhen certainly didn’t, and despite how most people didn’t like talking about their parents unless to say terrible things about them, everyone agreed that they didn’t have weak lungs like her either. So why did she have this bizarre health condition?

Not wanting to draw any more attention to herself though, Lyaella swallowed hard and then dipped down into a respectful curtsy. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her brother do the same, bending over in a forced bow.

“Welcome… Welcome to Winterfell, y-your grace, Lady Stark…”

“Been awhile since we saw you last.”

Arya grinned, but Bran’s lips curled up into a satisfied smirk.

“Missed you two since I left.”

“Indeed it has. You’ve both grown since I last saw you in person.”

Torrhen and Lyaella said nothing in reply. They had done as the queen had requested and been adequately polite. There was no need for any further pleasantries on their end.

“I’ll escort you to your old chambers myself. Torrhen? Take Lyaella to Maester Marlon straight away.”

With a sullen nod, Torrhen wordlessly took Lyaella’s hand and dragged her past all the onlookers to the direction of the maester’s workroom, neither bothering to say or wave goodbye to their aunts or uncle as they left. Lyaella felt her cheeks grow warm as she chanced a peek at all the people glaring daggers at them. Too shy to maintain her gaze with any of them, she bent her head and stared only at her feet as they hurried away.

“Why…? Why does Queen Sansa enjoy tormenting us like this?” she quietly murmured. “Making us go up front with her… forcing us to formally g-greet our uncle and… and other aunt, humiliating m-me right now because of my lungs… Why does s-she do this?”

Glancing around quickly to ensure that no one in the crowd was following them, Torrhen leaned in close. “Because she’s a bitch, Lyaella. We’ve always known that. All hail our aunt, the Bitch of the North. Long may she reign.”

Feeling another cough coming on, Lyaella gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. Hardly anyone in Westeros saw things the way they did regarding their relatives because the Stark’s were so good at putting on false airs to make people like and support them. But the two of them knew the truth: the Stark’s were terrible people. They would lie, manipulate, and kill anyone who stood in their way of having power. Including their own brother and the woman he loved. Kinslayers.

There was nothing honorable about them.

* * *

“I… I don’t want it.”

“And I don’t want to be stuck here in the North, girl. So we’re even.”

“B-But it’s… it’s disgusting.”

“It works. Be grateful it does.”

“It b-barely works… Isn’t there anything else?”

“You’ll drink what I give you, Lady Snow. That’s my final word.”

“You don’t have to act like such an ass about it, you know.”

“Speak to me like that again, Torrhen Snow, and the queen will hear about your attitude.”

Seated on a small wooden chair by an open window, Lyaella was literally forcing herself to take as many slow, deep breaths as she possibly could. Seeing Torrhen glower darkly at the cranky old maester would ordinarily make her sigh, but right now, all her thoughts were focused solely on taking one deep breath after another. It was probably for the best that Queen Sansa had directed her to see Maester Marlon straight away considering her light coughing had slowly turned into feeling like she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs no matter how much she tried while on the way to his workroom. It was good to have someone with medical experience around whenever she had a breathing flare up, but why did Maester Marlon have to be the only maester in Winterfell? He was always such a grouch and was twice as cranky when dealing with them compared to everyone else. She and Torrhen loathed it whenever they were forced to see him. And unfortunately, they were forced to spend more time in his company than they preferred due to her stupid weak lungs. Ever since she woke up in bed one night a few years ago and struggled to wake up Torrhen to get help considering she was so breathless and weak she could barely say anything, she spent so much time in Marlon’s workroom it was incredible that the queen didn’t just have the servants move her bed in here.

Plus, there was also Torrhen’s problems which they both knew wasn’t natural. Not that anyone believed them about it whenever they did happen, though.

Feeling her lungs preparing to take another deep breath, Lyaella struggled to ignore the reflex and instead force her lips to curl up in a strained smile.

“R-Really, Maester… Maester Marlon, I’m f-feeling a bit better now. I don’t… I don’t n-need any treatment.”

It was a half-truth. She was still quite breathless and certainly not well, but she did feel somewhat better sitting down and resting than she did standing outside and waiting for King Bran and Lady Arya. Saying she felt better therefore wasn’t a lie, and saying as such was the only way she’d could leave without drinking the nauseating concoction he always forced her to take.

Sifting through a cupboard, Marlon plucked out a clear flask of thick red liquid before hurrying to a small side table in the corner to collect a pottery jug. Taking them both to his main worktable, he threw the silver-haired child a frustrated scowl.

“I do as the queen commands, Lady Snow. She commanded me to treat you, and that’s what I’m doing,” he growled.

Not waiting for a reply, he poured the liquid from the pottery jug into a large mug, then added in the thick red liquid from the flask. Seizing a wooden spoon, he mixed the two liquids together for a short time, then crossed the room to offer Lyaella the cup.

Knowing full well what it was he was serving her, the very scent of the drink was enough to make Lyaella’s stomach roll. Wrinkling her nose, she gazed pleadingly up at Marlon.

“Isn’t… Isn’t t-there anything else that… that would help?”

Marlon gritted his teeth, thrusting the mug into her hands. “Drink it yourself, or I’ll tie you down and thrust the tube down your throat like when you were small! Don’t think for a second I won’t!

Immediately, Torrhen was dashing across the room from where he’d been leaning against the wall near the door. Quick as a flash, he planted himself firmly between Lyaella and the cranky maester.

“You’ll have to get through me if you try sticking that thing down her throat again!” he warned.

Finally losing his patience, Marlon smacked Torrhen so hard he toppled to the ground.

“Torrhen!” Lyaella cried. She tried to hop off her chair to help him back up, but Marlon’s hand shot forward, shoving her firmly back in her seat.

“You stay in that chair until you’ve drunk every last drop!” he growled. Not waiting for her to respond, he bent down, grabbed Torrhen by the fabric of his navy blue tunic, and dragged him back to his feet. He pulled Torrhen in close until the boys’ nose was only inches away from his own “I’m warning you, boy,” he hissed, “You watch your mouth! You two are nothing more than filthy dragonspawn bastards! Considering what a monster your mother was and the damn fool your father was for trusting her, you should count your blessings you’re both even still alive. You only live here because of the queen’s mercy, so show some respect!”

Torrhen glared hatefully at Marlon for several moments before huffing and looking stubbornly off to the side. Lyaella felt a certain tension she hadn’t even been aware of easing off her shoulders. Torrhen might have a short temper, but thank goodness he had the sense not to pick a fight every time he felt his anger rising.

With him quiet, Maester Marlon turned back to Lyaella. “What? Are you deaf, girl? I told you to drink it!”

Lyaella’s glanced back down at her mug. She cringed away from it for a moment, still thoroughly disgusted, and then hesitantly brought it to her lips. Within seconds she was gagging.

“Don’t you dare spit that out!” Marlon warned. “You spit it out, you’ll get the tube down your throat!”

Lyaella groaned, knowing full well that wasn’t an idle threat. Thick tears pooling in her eyes, she struggled to swallow her small mouthful. Her stomach churned, small noises erupting from it so loudly that even Torrhen cringed. Whimpering from only that tiny sip, Lyaella squeezed her eyes shut as tears flowed down her cheeks and forced herself to drink more. After several years of being forced to drink owl’s blood mixed with watered down Dornish Red wine to help her weak lungs, she really should have grown to become accustomed to the remedy, but no. Every time she was forced to take the disgusting blend, her stomach would immediately disagree with it. The one time she ever dared to give into her bodys’ instincts and throw up, Marlon slapped her so hard she was too weak to resist as he called in guards to restrain her so he could force the tube down her throat.

It seemed to take ages, but finally she emptied the cup. Marlon nodded in approval.

“Good. You should start feeling better quite soon,” he said gruffly, moving to put the wine jug and the flask of owl’s blood away. “In the meantime, it’s best to spend some time outdoors. Fresh air’ll clear out those lungs far more than staying cooped up indoors in this stuffy castle. Off you go.”

“O-Okay, thank you…” she murmured.

Hopping off her chair, she hurried over to the door where her brother was waiting. The sooner they left Marlon, the better. Pulling it open, she jerked her head for him to follow her.

But Torrhen didn’t move. He just stared at the wall.

“C’mon, T-Tory. Let’s go.”

He still didn’t move.

Lyaella swallowed a sigh, not wanting to upset the steady rhythm her lungs needed to catch her breath. Marlon’s disgusting drink took quite some time to kick in, and even when it did, it was very rare if it ever fully calmed down her breathing problems. Why she had to drink that blend when it didn’t really help her all that much was beyond her. But fast exits from Marlon’s workroom were necessary. It was the only way to avoid being stuck in here with Marlon and being forced to drink his medicine again if they didn’t help the first time.

“T-Torrhen please,” she whispered. “It’s… It’s n-not worth it. L-Let’s just—”

Rather abruptly, Torrhen jolted back to attention. “Lya-!” he started, sounding rather worried. But he cut himself off, blinking in confusion at the empty chair Lyaella had been in before.

Realization dawned on Lyaella, but just to be certain, she gently nudged his shoulder. He whipped around, eyes wide and face frantic. Calming slightly when seeing it was her, he still looked rather confused and unsure. That was all the confirmation she needed.

His fire flickered out again.

“You two gonna stand there all day?!” Marlon snapped, making them jump. “Don’t bother me if you’re not sick! Get out!”

They didn’t need to be told twice. They hurried out the door before he could yell at them again.

Torrhen waited until they were halfway down the corridor and the door to Marlon’s workroom had fully closed behind them before daring to speak. “I don’t know how you do it, Lya. If it were me drinking that stuff, I’d throw up every time.”

It was a casual statement, but it was also too casual. It was him pretending everything was fine.

Lyaella did her best not to frown. Past experience had taught her how to tread around her brother whenever his fire flickered out. It was best to tread lightly. At least at first. If he still pretended nothing happened though, then it was necessary to be demanding. “I almost d-did this time. I could… taste it on my t-tongue… But it’s either drink that s-stuff or get the tube. Anything’s b-better than the tube.”

“Yeah, can’t deny that.”

“And it’s b-better to… to not talk about your flame flickering?”

“What flame flicker?”

“Tory, please—”

“I had a moment of weakness. So what?”

“Don’t—”

“I just got lost in thought, Lya. No big deal.”

“Stop.”

Torrhen jerked to a halt, gawking at her. It wasn’t always easy for Lyaella to find her inner strength, but whenever she did, she was truly a forced to be reckoned with. Arms folded across her chest, she fixed him with a piercing glare. One that Torrhen had seen her give him many times during the rare instances she truly got angry, and he matched it easily.

“Come on, Lyaella. I’m not—”

“Stop. Talking.” Her words were sharp and precise, a far cry from her usual quiet murmurs and occasional stutters. “One, you’re lying to me. You know what the rules are about lying. And two, your flame did flicker out. Don’t pretend it didn’t.”

There was a long pause, but finally Torrhen sighed in defeat. Letting his eyes wander, he kicked away a wrinkle in a long rug spread out across the stone floor. Such a fine thing, the rug. Very decorative and ornamental. Every bit of furniture in Winterfell castle was of the finest quality, very expensive and fitting for stuck up royalty that the Stark’s were. From the hand-stitched tapestries lining the stone corridors to the finely crafted silver candelabras on every end table.

“Fine, I lied. Sorry ‘bout that, you’re right. Truth or Half-Truth always applies. But… But what do you want me to say about the flames?”

“The truth, Torrhen. You know the rules.”

“The rules let us tell half-truths, Lyaella! Well, that’s a half-truth! I don’t even know what to say!”

“Third time in two days. It’s getting worse.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I hate our relatives just as much as you do, but… but maybe we should—”

“No.”

“Torrhen—”

“No! You know what happened last time! I’m not letting everyone start calling us ‘mad’ again!”

Lyaella paused, seeing his point. Torrhen was right about that, at least. The last time they tried explaining to their aunts about his ‘fire flickering out’ episodes had been during a rare occasion when Lady Arya had returned to Winterfell for a few days aside from the yearly memorial service for the Long Night. Lady Arya hadn’t understood the situation, but it was entirely clear that Queen Sansa hadn’t believed them. Especially not when Maester Marlon had waved off his odd moments as him simply getting lost in thought and being a vivid daydreamer.

But Torrhen and Lyaella both knew it wasn’t him daydreaming during these weird moments. It was something else entirely.

Still, it was their word against the words of the uncaring Stark’s and cranky maester. Rumors had spread rapidly throughout the castle that the twins were both spacey and stupid, even though the problem only pertained to Torrhen and not Lyaella. People even began speculating that would both go ‘mad.’ Just like their mother.

From then on, the twins learned to keep their mouths shut whenever Torrhen’s fire flickered out. No one genuinely cared about them, after all. No one but each other.

That being said, the little episodes had always happened randomly in the past. And it was rare that many would happen during consecutive days.

“I’m just worried, Torrhen. I’m allowed to worry about this,” she said finally.

Seeing her glare soften, Torrhen smiled. “I’ll be fine, sis, really. I always bounce back.”

“But what if it’s worse next time? What if you stay out of it longer? Or… Or you don’t bounce back at all…?” She trailed off. Torrhen scoffed, still adamantly denying the situation. His dismissive attitude didn’t reassure Lyaella, and she glanced sadly out a nearby window without even truly seeing what was outside. “Part of me’s scared that… that whatever’s happening is a sign.”

“Sign?”

“That we’re supposed to end up like mother and father. Dead.”

For the first time since leaving Marlon’s office, Torrhen looked genuinely alarmed. “Why in seven hells would you think that?!”

Lyaella turned away from him, focusing all her attention on staring out the window. If she concentrated hard enough, she could make out the various expressions on the Stark guards preparing for the candlelight ceremony later tonight. Concentrating on them rather than her own feelings was the only way she could endure voicing this secret fear.

“I’m sick, Torrhen. You’re sick.”

“I’m not—”

“Deny it and you’re lying again. You’re sick, Torrhen. No one else believes it, but it’s true. We’re both sick.”

Torrhen scuffed his heels against the floor, considering her words. “So what if we are? That doesn’t mean we’re gonna die. And it doesn’t mean we’re gonna go mad,” he told her firmly. “We promised each other years ago, remember? We would never believe the shit they say about Mother.”

“I remember.”

“And what about Father? They call him a fool, but he wasn’t mad.”

“I’m not talking about Targaryen madness, Torrhen. I’m talking about real sickness.”

“That doesn’t matter. There’s no stories about either of them being sick.”

“Not them… but what about the rest of House Targaryen?”

Torrhen blinked. “What?”

She pressed her palm to the against the window, feeling the cold, frosted glass chill her fingers. “Everyone only sees us as the Targaryen bastards of the Mad Queen, the Queenslayer—”

“Don’t call them that.”

“—and they think we’re either gonna go mad like Mother did, or be foolish like Father was. They already consider our existence a greater shame on House Stark than Father had been on the late Ned Stark. They’re all waiting for the day to come when we turn out to be just as mad or foolish as our parents. They’ll be rid of us for good. Northerners only remember the madness part of House Targaryen being about insanity or cruelty, like the stories they tell about Mother. Or her father, the Mad King… Years and years of incest in House Targaryen… It makes everyone only remember that part of Targaryen madness. No one ever remembers some of them weren’t mad, but sick.”

Running her hand across the glass in a fast circle, she cleared away some condensation.

“So many Targaryen’s were fine mentally, but they died anyway because of their health problems… Queen Rhaella, Mother’s mother? She only had three children that lived. Can’t remember how many times she miscarried, but two babies I know died when they were born…”

“And three more so sickly they died in less than a year…” Torrhen trailed off.

“We’re sick, Torrhen. Maybe not to the same extent that other Targaryen’s were, but we’re sick. Don’t tell me I’m being stupid for being scared about this. You’re the only one I can talk to about it.”

Torrhen was silent for a short time as he processed it all, and Lyaella was exceedingly grateful. She needed him to take this seriously.

“You’re not being stupid,” he said finally. “I see what you’re saying. But we don’t need to worry about it now. We’re not that sick. We’re not gonna die anytime soon.”

“What if we do, though? What if one of us wakes up tomorrow only to discover that one of us is gone forever?”

“That’ll never happen. You wanna know why? Because if we ever lost each other, you know what I’d do?”

“What?”

“I’d find you again! Me and Shadow together, I swear it! I’d cross oceans just to find you! I’d slay a thousand warriors if they stood in my way! Nothing could stop me from finding my little sister!”

His words definitely cheered Lyaella up. She giggled lightly. “You’re barely older than me.”

“But I’m still older,” he teased. “I’d find you again Lyaella, no matter what! I promise! No, I pinky promise!”

He stuck out his hand, pinky extended to make the vow.

Giggling some more, Lyaella pulled her hand away from the window, pinky wrapping around his.

“Thanks, big brother. And… And I promise the same! If we ever lost each other, me and Sōnar would do everything we could to find you and Shadow. I’d… I’d search everywhere beyond the Wall… Even stand up to Queen Sansa if it meant finding you!”

“You? Going toe-to-toe with the Bitch of the North?” Torrhen doubled over, clutching his stomach as he cracked up. “Oh, oh wow! I’d love to see that!”

“Ha, ha. Very funny. So’s the idea of you and Shadow crossing the Narrow Sea.”

“Hey, it could happen! You never know what the future holds!”

Shrugging her shoulders dismissively, Lyaella let the comment slide. He was right, after all. While Northerners always claim that remembering the past was important, the future was something they always wished for to be better, yet was still impossible to predict. It was ever-changing and never set in stone.

“We’ve got a few hours before dusk and the memorial service starts. Wanna go riding?” she asked.

Torrhen grinned. “Sure, but what about Shadow and Sōnar? I thought for sure you’d rather spend the day with them with our instruments.”

“Let’s play our instruments tonight, when the feast is going on,” Lyaella told him. “We’ll need to make lots and lots of music then to drown out the feasting. But we can bring Shadow and Sōnar with us now. Shadow misses us, and it’s not right that Sōnar has to be locked up now that she’s getting bigger. She’s miserable in that cage!”

“No kidding, Shadow’s the same. He’s restless in the kennel. He wants his freedom!”

Laughing merrily, they set off towards the kennels. They and their only friends might be stuck in here Winterfell, but as long as they stuck together they could bear the hurtful words and hated stares they got from everyone. And indeed, as they crossed the courtyard a second time, they felt dozens of eyes narrowing upon them the moment they appeared, but unlike earlier, the twins found it somewhat easier to ignore them. They’d be able to escape all the judgment for a few hours before the memorial service begins just as soon as they fetched their friends and saddled up some horses. There was hope for the future that they could endure this yearly abuse that the memorial service always brought.

It was almost always a terrible nameday for the two of them, but not this year. No, this year would be a better. One day they could look back on today and be able to remember how they were able to make the best of the terrible situation that their nameday always brought considering it always fell on the same day that the memorial service for the Long Night was scheduled.

Entering the kennels, Torrhen got down on his hands and knees and began searching the crease between the ground and the stone walls. It took him a minute, but then he found what he was looking for: a small hole in the wall at the crease due to the stone cracking over time. Lyaella smiled as Torrhen fished around inside.

“C’mon… Where is it? Where is it…? Ah-ha! Found it!”

“Shh! Not so loud! D’you want the guards telling the queen we know where the extra key is?!”

“Right, sorry.”

Pulling his hand out, his fist now clutched a rather large key to the kennel cages. Ignoring the bits of dirt and grime now coating his breeches, Torrhen got back to his feet and motioned Lyaella to follow him further into the kennels. They found Shadow’s cage right away. The black direwolf had been lying down in his cage, resting his head atop his paws and looking so lonely and sad, but the moment the wolf caught a glimpse of his two little masters, he shot straight up. Wagging his fluffy tail back and forth, Shadow eagerly pawed at the pen doors.

“Shadow! Hey, boy!”

Lyaella watched fondly as her twin slid the key into the lock. The moment the door was open, the wolf pranced right out, circling around Torrhen as he leaned up affectionately against his boy. Torrhen laughed, running his hands through his black fur.

“Hey, buddy. Sorry Lyaella and me had to let you get caged up again earlier. We didn’t want to. But stupid Queen Sansa made us. You’re not mad, are you?”

Quiet panting and a swishing tail were his only reply.

“Good, part of me was worried you’d be mad at us.”

“Can I have the key? I wanna greet Sōnar.”

“Give me a sec, Lya! I want a few more minutes with—”

A low growl echoed threateningly from further inside the kennels. A growl the children knew didn’t come from Shadow. Torrhen took the hint the growl insinuated and passed Lyaella the key.

“Sorry, Sōnar. Didn’t mean to make you mad,” he called out apologetically into the darkness.

Deeper in the kennels, cage bars rattled. The creature locked away inside was obviously anxious to be free.

The twins knew that better than anyone. “Here,” said Torrhen, tossing Lyaella the key. “Better let her out. Can’t have her breaking out like Shadow did. The queen’ll twist it around.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Tory.”

Leaving her brother and Shadow alone to continue bonding, Lyaella ventured further down the row of cage doors, eventually stopping at the pen at the very far end of the row. Spotting the silver-haired girl approaching, the beast inside screeched happily, moving up close to the bars to see her better.

“Hi, Sōnar. Did you miss me?” Lyaella greeted, poking her hand through the bars to gently stroke the dragon’s head.

Yes, dragon. Not direwolf. Lyaella’s only true friend was a dragon.

Sōnar wasn’t a large dragon, though. She was actually very small whereas compared to what people in the North would generally envision when imagining dragons, especially those who had lived long enough to remember the Long Night many years ago and remembered the enormous dragons that had fought during the Great War. Barely reaching the size of a small horse, Sōnar was a snow white dragon, almost completely pure white aside from a few scattered scales tinted winter rose blue. Her spines were the same shade and her wings faded from blue back to white near the edges. Her eyes were a slightly different blue though, bordering more towards ice blue like Lyaella’s dress, and they lit up excitedly as the little girl unlocked her cage door and darted inside.

Feeling nothing but joy at the sight of her kind, gentle-hearted dragon, Lyaella gathered Sōnar’s head up in her arms and peppered her snout with kisses. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come visit earlier, girl. I meant to, but Queen Sansa… well, you know…”

Ignoring all mention of the Queen of the North, the dragon rumbled kindly. Blowing a slight puff of wind out from her nostrils, Sōnar leaned in deeper to Lyaella’s embrace, preening from the loving kisses and cuddles. Lyaella felt a great weight leave her shoulders. Sōnar wasn’t upset with her for taking so long to visit today, and judging by how Torrhen was laughing as he attempted to fend off Shadow from knocking him over to cover his face in happy licks, Shadow wasn’t upset with him either for being forced back into his cage this morning after he broke out. When the two of them were little and first found Shadow when he was still only a small pup and then had Sōnar once she hatched from her egg, Queen Sansa had allowed them to keep their new pets in their bedroom. They’d been so attached to their little wolf pup and new dragon hatchling they had the servants push their beds together back then that way they could all sleep together. It was so wonderful back then, falling asleep and then waking up together with small Shadow and Sōnar between them.

Those days were long gone, though. Ever since Shadow had grown to the size of a regular wolf and Sōnar had become bigger than a typical hound and was capable of breathing long strains of fire on command, the queen had their best friends locked away in the kennels every night. It was so cruel, taking away the freedom of two extraordinary creatures who had done nothing wrong. She ordered it simply because she was afraid of what they were and what they could do if they got mad. Didn’t they deserve the chance to prove to people that they were capable of being good?

No, of course not. In the eyes of House Stark and other distrustful Northerners, a dragon was dangerous no matter how kind and gentle it pretended to be, and a wolf was only good so long as it was loyal to its own kind — other wolves and Notherners. Not dragonspawn.

Having finally calmed down Shadow, Torrhen joined her in Sōnar’s pen, stroking her neck softly. Shadow trotted quietly up to the cage door behind him, watching them silently as he sat down.

“Hey, Sōnar. I know you love Lyaella, but you like me too, right? Don’t go giving her all the attention!” he teased. Lyaella huffed in fake annoyance as Sōnar gently butted her snout against his shoulder. Torrhen grinned cheekily at his sister, and Lyaella couldn’t help but stick out her tongue. Her irritation only seemed to encourage him, and he couldn’t help but grin even more.

Lyaella rolled her eyes. Pressing her lips one last time against Sōnar’s head, she glanced back at him. “Keep acting like that and you can go riding by yourself,” she warned. “I’d rather sit alone in my room and get dragged back to Marlon if my lungs act up than go anywhere with you when you’re being this arrogant.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be good.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, promise. Now, c’mon. Let’s go find some horses.”

With their dragon and direwolf at their sides, the twins exited the kennels. Ignoring all the stares from onlookers, they set off in the direction of the Winterfell stables. But they had barely walked more than two yards before a sharp voice halted them.

“Torrhen, Lyaella.”

Torrhen groaned as Lyaella let out a deep sigh. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shadow plop to the ground irritably, but Sōnar nudged her and Torrhen repeatedly with her head, begging them to keep going. But they couldn’t. Should they deliberately ignore the queen right now, everyone in the courtyard would see and things would be downright miserable for them throughout the entirety of King Bran and Lady Arya’s visit.

They turned around. Queen Sansa was approaching them as they expected, but Lady Arya and King Bran were with her too, Ser Podrick pushing his chair and Ser Brienne dutifully following. Lyaella felt herself frown is absolute misery as Torrhen rolled his eyes. Was it impossible for them to do anything today without having to see or speak to their aunts and uncle?

“Your graces, Lady Arya,” Torrhen said slowly, trying to suppress his annoyance from creeping up in his tone. He couldn’t fully contain it though and everyone could tell. “Is something wrong?”

Queen Sansa pressed her lips together. Without a word, her eyes slid from them to Shadow and Sōnar. The frown on her lips was dripping with clear disapproval. “I told you both earlier. We’re not going to have your pets running around everywhere today.”

“We’re… We’re only going to the stables, Queen Sansa,” Lyaella murmured, feet shuffling a bit as she averted her eyes. “We just want t-to go riding with them.”

“Out of the question.”

“W-What?”

“Aw, come on—!”

“Our bannermen are busy setting up for the memorial service tonight, and things are too restless in the North right now. It’s not safe for you both to leave the castle without proper guards.”

Torrhen threw up his hands, anger and annoyance fully obvious now. “We’re not planning to go far! We don’t need twenty armed guards!”

Lyaella nodded, feeling somewhat miffed herself. It was ridiculous to the twins, how Queen Sansa considered it necessary for people to watch them every single moment of the day. It was one thing for her to send only two or three guards to protect them should they leave the castle grounds, but if they even wanted to do something so simple as going horseback riding, she would order at least twenty of her most trusted bannermen to accompany them. It was like she thought they were planning to order their dragon and direwolf to kill and burn everyone in their path if they were left alone for even a moment. She was that distrusting of them.

Such a ridiculous notion. They weren’t like the Stark’s. They had no plans whatsoever on killing anyone who they deemed as cruel, manipulative, or stood in their way to power like the three of them did nine years ago.

“It is necessary, Torrhen. Neither of you are to leave the castle grounds without proper escort. That’s my final word.”

Without waiting for the children to respond, Queen Sansa waved over some bannerman.

“See to it that Shadow and Sōnar are returned to their pens,” she ordered.

Nodding their heads, one guard led Shadow away despite his pleading whines to stay by Torrhen. The other guards eyed Sōnar fearfully for a few moments, but then found their strength and steered the dragon away from Lyaella. The children tried to follow the guards, not wanting to be separated from their dearest friends, but King Bran’s chilling voice halted them.

“You are both so anxious to leave us. Why is that?”

Torrhen scowled at the slight curl of Bran’s lips, but Lyaella had to suppress a shudder. To everyone else in the world, King Bran came across as emotionless and distant aside from rare smiles or occasional furrowed brows, but to the twins, he was creepy. Being the Three-Eyed Raven as the most powerful greenseer and warg in all the world made him the keeper of all memories. So even though his physical body was completely ordinary aside from being crippled, he was the furthest thing from ordinary. He could enter the heads of ravens and fly around seeing everything they could see. He could look back in time and see everything that ever happened in the past, as well as things that were happening now all over the world. He could even catch slight glimpses of things that were yet to come in the future.

The fact he could see anything that might happen in the future was a telltale sign that the Stark’s were terrible people. King Bran had to have known what would happen to their parents so many years ago. He was the one who completely changed the game and set their parents up for failure and death by informing their father of a shocking secret.

Queen Sansa may have used that secret to her advantage by manipulating other important players, Lady Arya may have stood idly on the sidelines letting the chips fall where they may to reap the benefits, but King Bran was the one who changed everything there was to know in the great game of thrones.

He won. He won despite never actually doing anything. More than that, he made sure his family won.

His Stark family, that is.

“What does it m-matter? We have no freedom… we’re j-just as much chained up as… as S-Shadow and Sōnar.”

Their uncle’s lifeless smile didn’t change, but their aunt’s exchanged emotionless looks at Lyaella’s words. Finally they focused back on them.

“We went looking for both of you in Maester Marlon’s workroom just now,” said Lady Arya, effectively ignoring the prior statement. “We thought we’d all go down to the crypts together.”

The twins blinked. “The crypts?” they said in unison.

Lady Arya nodded. “It’s your namedays. We know you both prefer to go down there today rather than… the anniversary. We thought we’d all go down there together with you.”

“As a family,” Queen Sansa added.

Lyaella bit her lip while Torrhen tensed. They exchanged their own silent looks to one another. What were they supposed to say or do? Their aunts were technically right. They did like going down into the crypts on their nameday. It wasn’t a secret they did this, but they preferred to do so at night, after the memorial ceremony for the Long Night was over. They wanted to be alone when they visited the dead, the only exceptions being bringing Shadow and Sōnar after they came into their lives. Even though they were bastard Snow’s rather than true-born Stark’s, their father had grown up amongst his Stark relatives right here in Winterfell despite having the Snow surname, too. They had just as much of a right to go down there as the last living Stark’s did.

But they went down there alone because of everything they say and do while down there. It wasn’t just so they could visit their father’s statue.

Unsure of how they were going to talk their way out of this, the children both turned back to their aunts.

“I-I don’t—”

“That’s not—”

“Your grace! Riders are approaching the castle!”

Queen Sansa blinked, turning to look at guard hurrying towards them.

“Riders?” she repeated.

“Aye, your grace,” said the guard, nodding. “A whole entourage.”

“A minor house? Latecomers?” Lady Arya asked.

“If they are, they’re being pointedly late,” said Queen Sansa, distinct irritation in her tone.

“Actually, your grace, the banners aren’t of any Northern house.”

“Cousin Robin with Lord Royce and the Knights of the Vale, then?”

“No, your grace. We’re… We’re not entirely certain where they’re from.”

The Stark’s and Snow children exchanged curious looks. It wasn’t often that the North received unknown visitors ever since they became independent from the rest of Westeros. It made the adults uneasy, the children could tell, people they didn’t know coming here. Northerners were alway so distrusting of any outsiders. Yet another reason why Torrhen and Lyaella had every reason to hate their relatives. Their distrust was what led to them being orphans.

The children turned to quietly leave, but Lady Arya’s hands quickly grabbed their shoulders.

“Come on. We’ll go see what they want. Together.”

Before the children could protest, their aunt was already steering them along behind Queen Sansa and King Bran, being wheeled again by his guards. Exchanging irritated looks with one another around Lady Arya’s body, Lyaella felt completely at a loss. Why was it that their nameday had to be on the date of the memorial ceremony? Namedays were supposed to be fun, happy affairs. But not for them. No, their namedays were always a day they dreaded. It was so unfair.

As they reached the main gate, they saw a group of horseman ride inside, the banners they carried being a lovely shade of yellow with an emblem of a red heart on fire. There were a few of them carrying swords, but none of them appeared to be knights or extremely skilled fighters. If anything… they almost looked like they were priests since they all wore identical red robes. They formed a tight, protective unit around a beautiful young woman with shiny black hair. Like them, she appeared to be of the same order since she wore a striking red dress. A priestess. Despite the chill of the Northern air, her cloak was surprisingly very thin, yet she didn’t shiver in the slightest.

The twins were very curious about these newcomers. Like the guards, they had never seen such religious men and woman of this unknown faith before. They tried to inch closer to see them better, but Lady Arya’s hands tightened their grips upon their shoulders.

“Stay behind us. Both of you,” she hissed quietly.

“Why? What’s the matter?” Torrhen asked.

“Do as your aunt says,” the queen ordered. Like Lady Arya, her eyes never once left the faces of their visitors. They followed every movement the priestess in charge made without blinking once. Torrhen turned to Lyaella, making a rather obvious eye roll. Lyaella bit her lip to keep from laughing. Queen Sansa’s attitude was such an overreaction just for unexpected guests.

“Ser Podrick,” said King Bran, his usual lifeless drawl a tad firmer than usual. “Take me to them.”

His Ravensguard knight obeyed his command, quickly pushing him towards the newcomers. Queen Sansa fell into step beside him, her stride steadfast yet commanding. Lady Arya would normally walk right alongside her siblings, yet this time she lingered back a few steps, making sure that Torrhen and Lyaella were glued to her side at all times.

Lyaella shot Torrhen a quizzical look. What was it about these visitors that had their relatives so on edge?

The priestess was clearly the one in charge, because she quickly stepped forward as they approached.

“The Queen of the North, I presume. Sansa Stark,” she said pleasantly, her ruby lips turning up in a warm smile.

Queen Sansa’s smile was anything but warm in return. “Yes. That is me,” she said stiffly.

If the priestess took any offense at her tone, she didn’t show it. She instead turned to King Bran. “You are the Three-Eyed Raven king, the one who worships the trees.”

The emotionless seer said nothing. He simply stared at her with furrowed brows.

“The sibling rulers, the one’s who rule Westeros,” said the priestess, her tone light and airy. “It is good to finally meet you both. And your other sister.” Her eyes fell upon Lady Arya. The twins blinked as they felt their aunt push them a bit behind her. “Lady Arya, the Many-Faced assassin.”

Lady Arya’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a Red Priestess,” she stated. “A Red God worshipper.”

The priestess merely smiled. “I am Lady Kinvara.”

Lyaella tilted her head slightly, mildly surprised. A quick glance over at her brother confirmed her brother thought the same. Red God worshippers of the Lord of Light generally never ventured to the North. They almost never came to Westeros at all, as their head temple was in Volantis across the Narrow Sea. The twins had little exposure whatsoever to religion, because even though the rest of the North worshiped the Old Gods and prayed at the Heart Trees, Queen Sansa was such a cynic she held no beliefs whatsover, and Lady Arya believed that the only god that existed was the Many-Faced God, otherwise known as Death himself. King Bran on the other hand would rather live permanently next to a weirwood tree so as to better watch everything happening around the world all the time.

Between living with one aunt who didn’t care about religion, occasionally visited by a second aunt who worshiped the God of Death, and visited once a year by an uncle who was so devoted to the Old Gods he could almost become a god with his seer powers, it was no wonder why the children had never really cared for their Stark relatives religious beliefs. They knew their father worshipped the Old Gods before he died and that their mother had once needed help from red priestesses back when she had been absent from the city of Meereen in Essos long before she had come to Westeros, but aside from that, they didn’t know all that much about what their parents thought about regarding religion. But in this case, it was something they had little interest in learning more about regarding their parents.

Aside from the stupid prophecy people believed about them, that is. The Prince or Princess that was Promised being Azor Ahai reborn to bring the dawn.

But it hadn’t mattered in the end. The Long Night ended, the Dead were defeated, but their parents still died. If one of them had been the fabled hero of legend reborn to restore peace and order across the world, then they had failed to fulfill their destiny. Westeros still had power hungry leeches like the Stark’s who would do whatever they had to do to maintain their power. The King of the North and the Dragon Queen were dead, and they left their only children to grow up as bastard orphans, raised by the very monsters who had plotted their downfall. Religion was pointless.

“We weren’t expecting any red priestesses to come for the memorial ceremony,” Queen Sansa said shortly. “We didn’t prepare any additional guest rooms.”

“I’m sure you weren’t, Queen Sansa. The Lord of Light has told me so many things about you. And about your family.”

“Whatever visions you see in the flames mean very little to Northerners. We pray at the weirwood trees.”

“I mean you no disrespect, your grace, but one who never prays has no right criticizing those who do pray, let alone to what they do with their beliefs.”

Lady Kinvara might as well have slapped the queen, what with how dumbstruck she was by that honest, polite statement. The twins had to bite their lips to keep from snickering, but they weren’t able to stay fully silent. They both stopped when they realized that the red priestess was now staring directly at them.

“Torrhen Snow. Lyaella Snow,” she said, her smile suddenly much warmer and genuine than it had been a moment ago when addressing the Stark’s. “The Lord of Light has shown me many visions of you both in the flames.”

The children stared at her for a moment, then sheepishly smiled.

“Oh, really?”

“O-Okay…”

They had no idea what they were supposed to say to such a remark, or even how to address Lady Kinvara. She didn’t seem to share their uneasiness, though. If anything, she purposefully sidestepped around the Stark’s in order to see them better, but Lady Arya quickly stepped in front of her again.

“If you did come for the memorial ceremony tonight, you should have sent word earlier,” she told the priestess. “It’s odd, showing up out of the blue.”

Lady Kinvara wasn’t the slightest bit intimidated. “We do as the Lord wills us to do. He told us to come, so we came. It is not our place to question his word.”

“There are no guest rooms left,” said the crippled king. For once, his tone wasn’t dull and lifeless. If anything, it sounded the slightest bit commanding and angered. “Leave. Now.”

“There’s no need to worry about us. We’ve already set up accommodations for ourselves in Wintertown. We’ll be fine there. We only came to express our well wishes to you all for the service tonight. As Lady Melisandre fought and died here so many years ago, we are here to pay our respects and to carry out R’holler’s will for the future.”

“We do not believe in your Red God here,” said the queen, her cold eyes regaining their usual icy glare. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing that concerns you, Queen Sansa, rest assured. We will hardly be any concern of yours before tomorrow comes,” said Lady Kinvara rather mysteriously. Then, before Lady Arya or Queen Sansa could stop her, she breezed past the lady warrior and curtsied directly to Torrhen and Lyaella. “It was lovely to meet you both, Prince Torrhen, Princess Lyaella.”

“I’m not a prince.”

“I’m not a princess.”

The statements were made so firmly that it made even the Stark’s cringe. Torrhen and Lyaella cared little what their relatives thought. Their full attention was on Lady Kinvara. It didn’t matter it was her of all people who had addressed them with a royal title. They weren’t a prince and princess. They wouldn’t let anyone call them as such.

Lady Kinvara paused, but quickly regained her composure. “Until tonight, then.”

Turning back to her guards, they left without another word. The Stark’s, however, didn’t dare let down their guard until they were sure they were gone.

“They will cause problems,” said King Bran, face vacant as usual. “Don’t allow them to attend the service, Sansa.”

Queen Sansa sighed. “I can’t stop them from attending for no reason.”

“Nothing good ever comes from R’hollor worshippers, Sansa! You know that!” Lady Arya snipped.

“Yes, Arya. I know that,” said the queen, sounding rather tired. “I don’t trust them anymore than you do, but considering Lady Melisandre fought to protect Winterfell… they have a right to be here. There’s nothing I can do.”

Lady Arya huffed irritably and King Bran’s lips fell into a displeased frown. The twins shrugged away their aunt’s and uncles’ irritation with the priests and priestess. Lady Kinvara was an anomaly in their eyes, but they didn’t care whether she or her people were here for the ceremony or not. If their presence bothered their relatives, that was just fine with them. Nodding to one another, they turned to go.

“Where are you going?” said King Bran, his tone suddenly more alert.

“Anywhere but here,” Torrhen grumbled.

“We were going to go down to the crypts together,” Lady Arya reminded him. “We agreed on that.”

Lyaella simply stared at her warrior aunt with sad eyes. “W-We never agreed… You decided t-that on your own… J-Just like how you always d-decide what’s best with us.”

Lady Arya tensed while Queen Sansa’s lips formed a tight line, but King Bran only blinked, not at all fazed. Their lack of denial over that statement was more that enough to disgust Torrhen, and he shook his head at them before grabbing his sisters’ hand and dragging her off.

“Stay inside the grounds!” Queen Sansa called after them. “Don’t go anywhere near that red priestess or the priests!”

Torrhen rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Bitch of the North,” he muttered quietly. “Whatever you say…”

Lyaella cracked a small smile. “What should we do now, then? Marlon told me to stay outside for fresh air, but we can’t go riding and we can’t play with Sōnar and Shadow. What should we do?”

Torrhen folded his arms as his eyes closed, thinking hard. Finally he looked back at Lyaella. “Well, we got everything ready for tonight after the ceremony finished yesterday. Stashed them down in the crypt for safekeeping… how ‘bout we train for awhile? Not much else we can do anyway.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

And with that, the twins set back off to the castle. It was sad that this was what their nameday was reduced to being. No warmth, no real family, no one to celebrate the day at all. It was only above being no different than any other day because it was always scheduled on the same day as the memorial ceremony for the Long Night, and they hated the date because of it.

But what could they do? They were only the children of the Mad Queen and the Queenslayer. Like their father, they had grown up in House Stark with the social stigma of being known as the Bastards of Winterfell. Like their mother, they had grown up believing they were the very last of House Targaryen. Like both their parents, they had grown up being hated and treated lower than dirt for the terrible crime of simply being born.

But unlike their parents, they were alone aside from each other, Sōnar, and Shadow. Their relatives were only relatives, not family. Were it not for the fact that they were their father’s children, they probably would have plotted for them to die like they plotted for their mother to die. They had no friends, no allies, no one who was on their side. Nobody wanted them. If the rest of the world had their way, they probably would never have been born at all.

No one else in the world would ever see things their way. No one would ever admit that the reason their parents died was because of the choices other people made in the past. No one would ever realize that they were forced to grow up as bastard orphans was because of those choices.

They were only Torrhen and Lyaella Snow, the twin dragonwolves of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, and Jon Snow, secretly the true-born son of the late Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. The last two true-born Targaryen’s and legitimate heirs to the long disposed of Iron Throne.

The past was over, and no matter how much they hated their lives and how their greedy relatives took everything for themselves, there was nothing they could do to change them.


	2. Alone in a Crowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so pleased by the reception of the first chapter here on Ao3! 19 comments with only three of them being me replying to other people, 37 kudos, 7 bookmarks, and 713 views all together! I'm amazed by how well all of you love this story so far, and Torrhen and Lyaella haven't even traveled back in time yet!
> 
> Anyway, this chapter was never intended to end where it did. This chapter was initially written with the chapter following it to be one long, massive chapter! However, leaving it alone left the word count to about 26,000 words! Way, way too long! Chapter 3 will be posted on either Friday or Saturday. Consider the first three chapters being posted so fast being my way of trying to make up for the slight delay chapter 4 will take to be posted. I spent all of November/Nanowrimo month penning the first three chapters, but I haven't finished chapter 4 yet. The first three chapters I want to get online though, especially since the first three have already been posted on my other account on FanFiction.
> 
> I think that's everything I've got so far! Enjoy the chapter!
> 
> And please, leave a nice comment and kudos when you're done! I love getting those! :D

The last rays of sunlight were vanishing on the horizon, and darkness was spreading rapidly across the land. It was going to be a long, cold dark night. The perfect night for a candlelight memorial service.

Right outside the walls of Winterfell castle, everyone was gathering into various long lines to collect simple candlesticks and matches from Stark bannermen passing them out. The Stark’s were all waiting by a large, unlit pyre for everyone to be ready. The sooner everyone had their candles, the sooner the memorial service could begin and end, leaving everyone ready for the fun and wonderful feast that always took place afterward.

In the case of the only two bastards in the midst of everyone, they didn’t bother waiting in line with everyone else. No, they already had their candlesticks. Filched them off one of Queen Sansa’s favorite silver candelabras in one of the main castle corridors. Two for the service now plus an extra one for later tonight in the crypt. Therefore they didn’t have line up with everyone else waiting to get their candlesticks. They could keep training in the Winterfell courtyard for a little while longer.

“Careful, sis! Don’t drop your guard!”

“Right! Sorry, Tory!”

“Remember, let down your guard for even a second, and your enemies’ll overwhelm you! You’ve gotta strike hard and fast, before they know what’s happening!”

“’Kay, let’s do it again!”

_Clang! Clang! Clas— CLACK!_

“Don’t forget about footwork, Lya! Make a mis-step like that during a fight and you’re dead in a minute!”

“Easy for you to say, Tory. You’re not the one in a dress.”

Torrhen wiped away a bead of sweat from his brow. Swordplay was fun whenever he and Lyaella trained together. As his sister was a girl, she wasn’t supposed to train at all. The stupid Bitch of the North made her stay inside learning sewing whenever she could. _Swordplay and fighting is for men, Lyaella,_ she’d tell his sister in that stuck up way of hers. _Torrhen is a boy, so he_ _’s suited to learn, but you’re place is with other young ladies. That’s where you belong._ If there was one good thing Lady Arya’s occasionally random visits ensured, it was him and her being able to practice together without interruption. After all, Queen Sansa couldn’t say anything when her sister was around to make Lyaella stop considering what an expert swordswoman Lady Arya was.

“Just do your best. Come at me! Hack and slash as hard as you can!”

And besides, it’s not like Lyaella was ever going to become a legendary swordswoman like their distant aunt or Ser Brienne of Tarth. She had two left feet when it came to proper footwork. Their training together like this was their way of playing together rather than actual training.

Sure enough, Lyaella charged forward with a determined yell and her training sword raised high, but as she swung her sword downward toward him, she stumbled over her own feet, forgetting all about the attack as the sword slipped out of her hand.

Torrhen couldn’t stop himself. He chortled. “Visenya the Dragon Queen kneels before Torrhen Stark! King of Winter! The direwolf rises again!”

“What?! Never! The cold-hearted Stark’s will bend the knee! They’ll kneel before the true queen and the dragons of Old Valyria!”

Grinning wickedly, she snatched her sword and ran at him full tilt. Torrhen laughed as he darted aside and rose his sword to parry a sword strike. Why couldn’t the real master-of-arms- here in Winterfell make training as fun as training with his sister? Ten minutes worth of partial training-partial playing with her, and he was enjoying sword training a thousand times more than a full days’ worth of swordplay lessons from the proper swordsman instructor his eldest aunt had hired to teach him and a few other servant boys who lived in the castle the proper art of fencing and fighting. With that stubborn goat, every lesson was nothing but proper technique every second and running drills until he keeled over with exhaustion. With Lyaella, he helped her get the basics down and refreshed her on things she may have forgotten since the last time they found the opportunity to train, but they also found a way to enjoy themselves. They found the time to play.

Sure, training this way wasn’t fully rewarding, but it was fun. There was no need to train as though every single day was a fight for survival. Unless civil war were to break out tomorrow between the Northern lords and ladies finally having enough with the Bitch of the North’s poor handling of the current famine or the whispers he and Lyaella had overheard some Southern visitors whispering about a rebellion against the Three-Eyed Raven king were true, they were entitled to have some fun. They could play games, win or lose without worrying about stuff. That’s what being a kid was all about.

“Give up, King of the North!”

“Never! You shall feel the wrath of winter, Visenya!”

_Clang! Clang! Clash!_

_Clang! Clang! Clash!_

_Clang! Clang! Clas— CLACK!_

Lyaella shrieked as she mis-stepped a proper dodge and teetered over into a large pile of snow. She slowly sat up, spitting snow out of her mouth and brushing frozen flakes out of her hair.

Torrhen cheered. “Visenya has fallen! Conquered by ice and snow! The King of the North has won!”

Lyaella attempted to shoot him a mock glare, but she was shivering so hard from the cold her fake anger looked adorable. “H-Ha, ha! Very… Very funny! N-Now help me up!”

Torrhen nodded. He walked up to her and was about to sheathe his sword, but he paused all the sudden, a wicked smirk crossing his face.

“T-Tory… I’m freezing! Help m-me up!”

Torrhen ignored her. Instead, he dug the tip of his sword into the frozen ground and stuck out his chin pompously.

“Visenya of House Targaryen, do you swear to stop attacking the North?”

“Torrhen!”

“Aye, I am Torrhen. King Torrhen Stark of the old Kings of Winter. Swear you’ll convince Aegon the Conquerer and Queen Rhaenys to leave our people be!”

“T-Torrhen… this isn’t f-funny!”

“Promise you’ll honor your pledge and allow us Northerners our independence. We’d rather die alone than join the rest of Westeros! We’re proud to—”

Distinct coughing cut him off.

Within a split second, Torrhen’s smirk was wiped clean off his face. He dropped his sword, tugged Lyaella to her feet, and began slapping the snow off her clothes.

“Lya! Lya, you okay?! Is it your bad cough?!” he asked fearfully. “I’m sorry! I was —— I was only teasing! Do you need Maester Marlon again?! I’ll… I’ll go get him! I’ll tell our relatives you were—”

_PLOP!_

He yelped. Anyone would if the sickly twin sister they’d been fussing over suddenly beaned them on the head with an ice cold snowball. Little sneak!

Lyaella giggled. She cheekily stuck out her tongue at him as he attempted to shake out the cold wetness. “Serves you right. Dragons answer to neither gods nor men.”

“Ugh! That was uncalled for, Lyaella! I was worried about you!” he snapped. Now that he knew she was okay and only faking a possible breathing problem, he was definitely mad. “Don’t _ever_ use your weak lungs as an excuse like that again! Hell, that was a lie, too! You just lost Truth or Half-Truth!”

She shot him an icy glare of her own. “One, that _was_ called for,” she snipped, jamming her hands on her hips. “You were acting like an arrogant ass. You think I was going to sit there shivering while you rubbed in your win like that, you’re mistaken. Two, I _wasn_ _’t_ lying or trying to use my stupid lungs as an excuse. That cough was real.”

“No, it wasn’t! You’re not all breathy and tight-chested now!”

“That’s because I didn’t cough because of my lungs. I coughed because I accidentally swallowed some snow.”

Torrhen blinked, anger fading away. “What? Seriously?”

She nodded firmly, eyes narrowing further. “Yeah. Don’t believe me? Take some snow and try eating it. You’ll be coughing too.”

“No, no. I… I believe you.”

“You insult me, Torrhen. You think I’d ever pull a dirty trick like that? You let your Stark namesake go to your head. Pretending to be sick like that only to get a one-up on an enemy? You obviously don’t know me at all. The only reason I’d have breathing problems in front of an enemy was if I really was having breathing problems. And that’s the truth!”

He sighed. “Sorry, Lya. You’re right, you’re not like that. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

“I should say not!”

Flashing her one last apologetic smile, Torrhen picked up his training sword, wiped the blade clean of excess snow, and then passed Lyaella hers. “Wanna go again?”

Lyaella mused for a moment, but upon glancing over curiously at the Winterfell walls and main gate where everyone else in the castle was on the opposite side of, she ultimately shook her head. “No, we better join in with the rest of the crowd. The memorial’s probably gonna start soon. We gotta find a good spot.”

He was a bit disappointed by her response, but she was right. If they goofed around any longer, Queen Sansa would probably be furious. Normally he wouldn’t care how annoyed the direwolf queen became regarding him or his sister, but today was an exception. It was still their nameday. It was already somewhat spoiled due to how the red-headed witch humiliated them this morning when they almost missed the official welcome for King Bran and Lady Arya. No point having her embarrass them a second time by being late again.

Lingering only a few moments longer to put away their training gear, the twins collected the three candlesticks they’d set off to the side. Hiding one of them in the inner pockets of Torrhen’s cloak for later, they hurried out beyond the castle gates. They pushed through the crowd, doing their best to try blending in with everyone else and not lose their grips on either each other’s hands or their candlesticks for the memorial service. They had to find a nice, quiet spot away from the main crowd so they wouldn’t be directly in the spotlight, but could still provide them a clear view of everything happening. The candlelight ceremony was literally the only fun thing that happened on their nameday aside from their special visit down in the crypts afterward. Torrhen and Lyaella didn’t want to miss any of it, yet they also didn’t want people glaring at them throughout the entire service.

Finding the perfect spot to stand during this time was a hard task. When they were really little, they had always stood with their aunts and uncle the entire time while enduring all the glares thrown their way by everyone. When they finally decided two years ago to stand away from their relatives, their relatives hadn’t been pleased. That first year they’d been dragged back to their relatives and forced to stand alongside them like usual. Last year though they managed to escape their relatives and had managed to hide behind the outside corner of the Winterfell walls, peeking sparingly around it every so often in order to see. They had planned to do the same again, but someone must’ve seen them hiding back there last year and there were several guards patrolling the spot. Hence they needed to find a new quiet hiding place before the ceremony started.

“Maybe we should head to the broken tower,” Torrhen murmured, sidestepping out of the way of a particularly large smallfolk man, hurrying up to his wife and children while carrying a few candles. “No one would think to look for us there.”

“We wouldn’t be able to hear anything, though,” Lyaella pointed out. “Let’s just stand in the back of the crowd.”

“If we do that, we won’t see anything… How ‘bout we climb to the top of the walls on the right hand side? We might not hear everything, but we’ll probably get the important stuff, and we’ll still get a clear view.”

“That sounds fine.”

They set off through the crowd back to the main gate. Aside from a few people who deliberately stuck out their feet in their paths or jabbed them ‘accidentally’ with their elbows, it seemed as though they might make a clean break. Until—

“There you two are. You’re aunts and uncle are worried.”

Torrhen groaned while Lyaella squeaked. Spinning around, they found themselves face-to-face with the infamous Lady Commander of King Bran’s Ravensguard.

“Ser Lady Brienne,” said Torrhen dryly. “We’re not doing anything wrong. Just looking for a spot to watch everything.” It always annoyed him how their relatives always found it necessary to have either their most trusted friends or even flocks of ravens watching them all the time. It was bad enough that he and Lyaella were forced to live with the selfish queen that was their aunt in the prison that Winterfell truly was. Why did they also take away the little bit of freedom and privacy that they were entitled to when they just wanted to be left alone?

Brienne frowned. “I told you both before to simply address me as ‘Ser’ Brienne, not ‘Ser Lady.’”

“But c-calling you only ‘ser’ is r-rude, Ser Lady Brienne,” Lyaella said shyly. “You’re still… still a l-lady, after all. We h-have to address you as s-such.”

She sighed, exasperated. “Never mind that. Your aunts and uncle are looking for you both. They sent myself and Podrick to look for you. Come along.”

Not allowing them the chance to protest, she gently steered them through the crowd to where their relatives were waiting near the enormous, yet still unlit memorial pyre.

Catching a glimpse of Lyaella sighing out of the corner of his eye, Torrhen shot her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. He was just as annoyed and upset about this as she was, but he had to keep her spirits up. He and Lyaella were twins and would always be one and the same, but they were still different people. If there was one thing Torrhen knew, Lyaella had a gentle heart and was very meek. He honestly didn’t know where her tender spirit came from considering they’d been raised by the wolves, but she was the good one between them. She was the one who would live through the nightmare that was their childhood and still remember what it meant to be a good person. But he was the big brother. It was his job to protect her from everything.

It seemed to take forever navigating through the sea of bodies, but at last they broke free of the mob and were face to face with the Stark’s. King Bran was as emotionless as always, but Queen Sansa and Lady Arya definitely looked annoyed.

“Torrhen, Lyaella, glad you decided to join us,” said Queen Sansa, frowning as she always did. “Thank you for finding them, Ser Brienne.”

“Of course, your grace.”

“Tell Ser Podrick they’ve been found and have him hurry back. Can’t do the service at all without him, after all.”

“As you wish, Lady Arya.”

And with that, Ser Brienne vanished back into the crowd. Now they were stuck up here. Typical.

A distinctly pointed cough made by the queen directed Torrhen’s attention back to her. “Why were you two purposefully trying to delay the ceremony?”

“W-We weren’t trying to… to do that,” said Lyaella quietly. “We were only… l-looking for a place t-to watch everything… We did that l-last year.”

Lady Arya looked as though she was biting her tongue in order to suppress her annoyance. “Yes, and we were angry then, too. You belong up here next to us.”

“No, we don’t,” Torrhen grumbled, staring firmly at the hilt of Needle on her hip in order to avoid glaring at her directly. “The _Stark_ _’s_ are supposed to lead the ceremony. We’re Snow’s, not Stark’s.”

Whatever Lady Arya and Queen Sansa had been planning to lecture them with was instantly forgotten as they stiffened. They obviously hadn’t been expecting him to pull that card out in defense for their actions.

King Bran however had no form of empathy or emotions in his soul anymore, and he wasn’t at all fazed. He blinked at them, his lifeless eyes appearing rather ominous in the darkness. “It bothers you, your last names,” he spoke. “You both wish you had real names.”

Torrhen shifted his glare to him as his hands balled up into fists, but Lyaella pointedly averted her eyes so as to focus solely on her unlit candlestick. They didn’t have to answer that. It hadn’t been a question. And they shouldn’t have to explain their thoughts about this anyway. It was the Stark’s fault that they had the last name ‘Snow’ after all.

Shaking his head at the three of them, Torrhen grabbed Lyaella’s hand and tried dragging her away. He didn’t know where he was going, he only wanted to get himself and Lyaella away from their horrible relatives. Sadly, their relatives refused to grant them any form of mercy from their persistent torment, because Queen Sansa stepped forward and pulled their hands apart.

“You are both still our blood, Torrhen. Our family. That gives you and Lyaella every right to stand here with us.”

Lady Arya nodded, bending down a bit to their level. “She’s right. And if it’s everyone else’s opinions you’re worried about, then don’t. No one’s gonna say or glare at you two while you’re with us. Not anymore.” King Bran nodded in agreement, his lips curling into a rather haughty grin.

Torrhen didn’t know what she meant by that, but he didn’t care about knowing either. Sighing in defeat, he slumped over to the empty spot beside his dark-haired aunt and motioned Lyaella to stand next to him. Lyaella took her place, but as soon as the Stark’s looked away, she gave Torrhen a miserable frown, one he returned with equal gloominess. They didn’t get it. Nine years now the Stark’s had raised them, yet they still didn’t get it. Unbelievable.

It seemed to take ages, but finally people slowly dispersed from all the lines and gathered around the pyre, and Ser Brienne returned with Ser Podrick, the latter nodding politely to the Stark royals and Snow children. With everything finally in place, Queen Sansa soon stepped forward towards the crowd. The chatter in the air quickly hushed.

“Welcome, welcome all,” she declared. “Tonight, we remember that not so long ago, a terror that had not been seen in the North in over eight thousand years returned to life. A terror that brought about a war of darkness and fear, and last for nearly a full year as we fought against death itself. The War for the Dawn.”

Chilling murmurs spread rapidly amongst the crowd. King Bran smiled lightly, but Lady Arya stood even straighter than before. Torrhen and Lyaella did nothing though. They had no memory of the supposed Long Night, and all they could really do was simply stand there and watch Queen Sansa continue her speech.

“Many did not believe that the frightening stories that we had heard in the stories from childhood were true. The Night King, the white walkers, the tales of the dead rising from the grave… it was easier for us to not believe it. But the Night’s Watch knew something was afoot beyond the Wall. They were the first to understand the threat, and if not for them and all the Wildlings who escaped death by crossing the Wall before they were added to the Night King’s army, we in the North would never have been prepared to face this enemy before the dead were upon us. We in the North would have fallen, and once we fell, all of Westeros would have followed, there is no denying that.”

Many in the crowd nodded, agreeing with the queen.

“We fought against Death itself so that we could survive. We won the Great War… but at a great cost. So many gave their lives so that people everywhere could have the chance to live. The sacrifice they made is one that cannot be understated. They are gone from us, gone forever… but they will always be with us so long as we remember them. We must never forget their sacrifice, their bravery. So long as they are remembered, then they live on. Now and always.”

Quite a fair number in the crowd began tearing up at that, but Torrhen and Lyaella only exchanged silent looks. It was easy for people to talk about remembering stuff if it pertained directly to them. Queen Sansa spoke rather eloquently about the North itself… but what about their mother’s army? Daenerys Targaryen had all but abandoned her quest for the Iron Throne when she learned about the Army of the Dead from their father. She’d come to the North with two dragons and two mighty armies to help them in their darkest hour… yet no one ever liked remembering that when discussing the history of the Long Night or about the terror that spread in Essos and Westeros during the reign of the Mad Queen. All this talk about remembering people Queen Sansa just told everyone? She was such a hypocrite. She never liked remembering their mother as the only person in all of Westeros who brought the Northerners the help they desperately needed. No Northerner ever did. No Northerners but them, that is.

“We must also remember that part of the reason why we were almost annihilated when Winter first returned to the land was because we forgot that all the stories we heard as children weren’t merely stories. We grew up believing they were stories because our ancestors forgot to stress the importance in them. All the frightening tales about the white walkers and the army of the dead were _never_ stories at all. They were the secret truths in history. We cannot let what happened here in the North nine years ago be forgotten. Should the Night King and the army of the dead ever return, we Northerners will be the first line of defense against them. We must remember what has happened in the past and remember the mistakes that we made when the night was dark and full of terrors. If we don’t remember, then those that come after us will never learn from our mistakes and will either repeat them or be utterly wiped out. We _must_ remember our past, no matter what.”

Uneasy murmurs whispered in the wind. That thought was haunting, and no one in the crowd enjoyed hearing it even though the importance of it couldn’t be understated.

“There is no need to worry about that. All is fine now.”

Heads everywhere quickly turned, including the queen’s. King Bran was actually smiling for once as he looked out at everyone. With his lifeless eyes though, his smile was nothing short of eerie. Torrhen noticed Lyaella shudder as she looked at him now, and he instinctively moved a bit closer to her so she’d feel safe. King Bran should never be allowed to smile. Not when he didn’t know know how to make his eyes show any sign of life in his body.

“There is no need to worry about the Night King and the army of the dead ever again,” he went on. “I am the Three-Eyed Raven. I have already glimpsed into the future regarding them. They are gone. Gone forever. Arya killed the Night King here in the Winterfell godswoods. He can never come back. All is well.”

A good portion of the crowd cheered and clapped enthusiastically, but there was still a fair amount that were rather apprehensive. Either they weren’t sure whether or not the seer king was correct, or they just didn’t want to believe anything the Stark’s said right now when the current status of Westeros was so unstable thanks to their rule and they weren’t sure whether the Stark’s were trustworthy. Torrhen and Lyaella barely clapped at all. They _had_ to clap since everyone could see them standing here beside their relatives, but no one had told them to clap enthusiastically. They did not want to show any more support towards their relatives than what was absolutely necessary.

Now that the queen’s traditional speech was over, it was time to let the two distinguished soldiers who fought to defend the Winterfell during the final battle to speak, just like every year before. As Ser Brienne and Ser Podrick stepped forward to address the crowd, Torrhen and Lyaella followed their uncles and aunt off to the side to allow the two knights to have everyone’s full and undivided attention.

Everyone except theirs, that is. This part of the ceremony was always so boring for the twins they couldn’t help but tune it out.

“Same speech as last year,” Torrhen muttered, eying Queen Sansa as he spoke. “A few words changed here or there, but still the same speech. Incredible…”

“No one cares, Tory. No one but us,” Lyaella whispered. “Don’t start anything just cause no one remembers last year’s speech. It’s not worth it.”

Torrhen slouched over, annoyed. He wasn’t stupid, he knew Lyaella was right. But still… part of him he didn’t understand genuinely _wanted_ to make a scene about it. He had no idea why he always felt the need to start arguments or fights nowadays. He never liked his relatives while growing up, but aside from a few occasional childhood tantrums, he knew when it was appropriate and when it wasn’t to yell, and those few rare instances were even fewer for him and Lyaella combined compared to other children their age considering they were Targaryen bastards. Losing their temper for even a _minute_ could cause months and months of speculation from everyone regarding their Targaryen coin flips landing on madness rather than greatness. But lately… it seemed like his temper was always rising for even the stupidest things. Were it not for his sister, Torrhen was certain he would have started at least three different fights today alone. He really needed to get a better hold on his anger.

Sucking in a breath, he glanced back at Lyaella. “Nine years,” he whispered. “Nine years now we’ve never had cake or presents for our nameday. Instead, we host a memorial service.”

Lyaella sighed as she smoothed out a wrinkle in her dress. “I… I understand why it’s important, doing this ceremony,” she told him quietly. “They say father was Lord Commander of the N-Night’s Watch and he… he was always fighting the Dead, but honestly, Torrhen… I don’t know what to t-think about all this…”

Torrhen blinked. “You saying you don’t believe all the stories?”

“You do?”

“’Course I do! How can you not? People may not think father was a fool and a queenslayer, but they also say he was the one who led the fight against the Dead, Lya.”

“But… But an army of hundred thousand d-dead men, Tory? That’s just impossible…”

“Hmm… okay, you’re right there. That’s probably exaggerated to make the Stark’s look better. It was probably more like twenty thousand, I bet. Aside from that though, all the stories about him in the book, what people who knew him say about him… he killed at least two white walkers singlehandedly! He was a hero! I’m gonna be a great swordsman like him one day! If the Night King ever comes back to life, I’ll be the one to defeat him!”

Lyaella brought her hand to her mouth to hide a giggle. “How? Valyrian steel and dragonglass were the only things to kill the w-white walkers. I know they say fire helped kill the regular dead men, but you’re on y-your own with that. Sōnar would be sticking with me if the army of the dead come back.”

He couldn’t stop himself from pouting at her. “You just said that you didn’t believe in the army of the dead. Make up your mind.”

“I never said that, Tory. I just… I don’t know…”

“What?”

Lyaella was silent for a time, then finally twiddled with her candlestick. “That’s just it. I don’t know. I… I think this memorial thing is nice. It’s wonderful, lighting the candles and the pyre in memory of those who died. It’s the only fun thing that ever happens on our nameday. And it’s nice knowing mother was so selfless, bringing her armies and her dragons here up North to help people even though it cost her everything. Father I’m sure was brave, fighting the Dead right by her side. I like thinking that’s how things happened back then…”

“But?"

“But… I don’t know what to think about all this. It’s hard to believe that there was an army of dead men threatening the Seven Kingdoms, and they were led by a king made of ice. It’s… It’s just hard to wrap my head around, I guess.”

“I see what you mean, but even the _queen_ admits that it happened! She’s gotta be the biggest skeptic in the world, yet even she insists the Army of the Dead was real! If she says it’s true, you know it’s gotta be!”

“I know that, Torrhen. I know _something_ bad must have happened if almost all the Northern lords and ladies back her up on it, even those that don’t like her these days. I accept that part, but only because I know father probably would’ve never met mother if something bad wasn’t happening here back then. If there’s one thing I do believe, it’s that. If not for whatever it was happening up here all those years ago, mother and father probably would never’ve met.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right about that.”

“Shh! Torrhen, Lyaella!” Queen Sansa suddenly hissed. “Quiet down!”

Lyaella quickly nodded, but Torrhen couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Couldn’t they even _talk_ to each other anymore without being criticized?

Luckily, Ser Brienne and Ser Podrick’s speech ended not too long after that, and after the crowd clapped politely, the fun part of the ceremony actually began.

Motioning for the twins to follow them back up to the pyre, Queen Sansa led the way for the Stark family as a lone Stark bannerman brought forth a flaming torch. It was tradition before everyone began lighting the candles for the Stark’s to light the main pyre one at a time while reciting the names of those they considered to be the most vital in terms of protecting the North that unfortunately died during the war. Torrhen and Lyaella had seen their aunts and uncle do this every year on the sidelines and hadn’t thought twice about it, as they enjoyed lighting their own candles afterward. This was the first time though that they had been encouraged to join their relatives in lighting the pyre itself. It was a genuine surprise that they were being included in this part of the ceremony.

They had no time to muse over it or even exchange looks of surprise, because Queen Sansa was already accepting the torch from the guard and approaching the pyre.

“In memory of those we will always remember for their courage and sacrifice,” she told the audience. Turning back to the kindling, she paused momentarily to collect herself, then brought the flames down towards the wood. “Theon Greyjoy, the Kraken of House Stark,” she murmured quietly.

Theon Greyjoy. Yet another example of personal hypocrisy regarding the queen’s logic towards who was and wasn’t trustworthy. Nothing anyone said to Torrhen could dissuade him from thinking this about his cruel aunt. Theon Greyjoy had been the ward of House Stark long ago and had later betrayed them, yet he was considered a great hero during the war simply because he apparently saved the queen from a horrible marriage prior to her coronation and died protecting King Bran. Two good deeds didn’t entitle a person to absolute forgiveness for the sins they committed against people who had literally raised him. The fact that Queen Sansa thought differently only made her a hypocrite to her own logic.

At least his sister Yara understood that even if no one else did. Queen of the Iron Isles. She’d allied with his and Lyaella’s mother right before she first came to Westeros, and to this day is still one of the few people in the entire realm who understands and supports their logic regarding that their mother had always been a good person and was never ‘mad’ at all. Torrhen wished she’d come to the memorial ceremony this year. She used to come every year when he and Lyaella were little, and she was one of the small handful of people who always told them the best stories about what a great woman their mother was and would’ve been a great queen, far better than Queen Sansa of the North or King Bran the Broken.

But Queen Yara had stop coming to the yearly memorial ceremony for about four years now. It didn’t matter that her last living brother had died during the Long Night and she wanted to pay her yearly respects to him in addition to being sure to tell the children of the only monarch she ever supported about what a good woman their mother was. She would never return to the North again aside from when leading her fellow Ironborn sailors on their usual raids around the Northern shores. Not when it was public knowledge across the North that her kindness and generosity towards the children of Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen had been shunned and all but spat on in the worst possible way by the Stark’s.

Torrhen’s fists clenched. Remembering the specifics of why Queen Yara would never come to North again made his blood boil. In this instance, he was entitled to be angry about it, and even Lyaella shared in that anger. He knew better than to talk about any of this out loud though. He kept his mouth shut by literally biting his tongue as the queen passed the torch to her sister. Lady Arya circled the wood to the second corner where the flames had yet to reach.

“Beric Dondarrion, leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners,” she said firmly, lighting the wood. Glancing over at her final sibling, she waited until Queen Sansa had fully pushed King Bran’s chair to the next corner of the lumber pile before handing him the torch.

King Bran was silent for a time as he stared at the wood. It was hard to get a good look at his face due to how the steadily rising flames were making shadows dance across his face, but if Torrhen looked closely enough, he could have sworn the slightest trace of a smile was upon his face.

“The Night King,” he said finally. He lowered the torch towards the wood, making sure it caught aflame before moving it away. His name drew quite a few surprised looks, his sisters among them. “The enemy we defeated. We must remember our foes, after all.”

Taking the torch away from him, Queen Sansa blinked away her surprise and walked up to Torrhen and Lyaella. “Go on,” she urged gently, passing Torrhen the torch. “You both light the last corner.”

Torrhen couldn’t help but stare incredulously at Lyaella for a moment before finally walking with her to the final unlit corner. The rest of the lumber was ablaze with a hearty, crackling fire. Except this one corner. Generally the Stark’s would only light the first three corners and simply allow the flames to eventually carry over to this corner on their own. But not this year. This year, the twins were allowed to choose names to recite while lighting the final corner. But who could they even pick when they didn’t even know those who had died all those years ago?

The boy was at a loss on what he was supposed to say or do right now in order to fulfill this part of the memorial service, but after a few seconds pause, he discovered that in this instance, Lyaella was actually the one to take charge. Gently taking the torch from him, the silver-haired girl slowly brought the flames of the torch down to the wood.

“For all t-the Unsullied and Dothraki w-warriors who died,” she said shyly, yet still loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Torrhen blinked, then chanced a quick glance over at their relatives and the rest of the crowd. The crowd was murmuring uneasily, but their aunts and uncle had all frozen in place, staring at them with wide eyes. Torrhen did everything he could to suppress a smirk. Lyaella hadn’t done anything wrong, yet she still managed to remind everyone that it wasn’t only the North who lost people when the Night King and his army marched south. She was a genius.

Still, he had to recite off a name too. And thanks to Lyaella, he knew exactly which name he could recite. Taking the torch from her, he moved a few paces to the left where there was still one last chunk of unburnt timber.

“Jorah Mormont. Lord Commander of Daenerys Targaryen’s Queensguard.”

A sudden hush descended upon the ceremony as Torrhen lit the pyre, the crackling of the rising flames being the only sound to be heard in the silence. Torrhen couldn’t help but feel rather pleased with himself, and judging by the soft smile on Lyaella’s face that she was trying to keep from being so obvious, she was equally pleased by his choice of name. It was common knowledge that the exiled Northern knight Ser Jorah had pledged himself to their mother’s campaign to reclaim the Iron Throne. Aside from one other cousin that had fought during the war, Jorah Mormont had been the last of House Mormont, and with his and his cousin Lyanna’s deaths during the Long Night, House Mormont was extinct. No one ever liked remembering that a Northerner aside from their father had been part of Daenerys Targaryen’s service, though. They acknowledged that Ser Jorah died a hero during the war despite the dishonor he brought his house when he fled from Westeros, but they didn’t like remembering that the way he died was from protecting his queen. The Dragon Queen.

It felt good, reminding everyone about that. He was just as much responsible for saving all their ungrateful lives as any other Northerner that fought during the war. Their mother fought to protect them, yet no one ever appreciated her help. They didn’t remember everything she sacrificed to help them. No, they just called their father a fool for both asking for her help at all and then fathering bastards like himself with her. Not even their own relatives defended his actions even though they knew he was never a bastard at all. Were it not for the fact that he and Lyaella had eavesdropped on certain private conversations between their selfish aunts and aloof uncle, they wouldn’t even know about his secret heritage of being the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. That was only the first of quite a few secrets the Stark’s hid from him and Lyaella that they weren’t supposed to know about yet they did. The Stark’s were terrible. Just plain terrible.

Offering only a small, innocent smile to their frozen aunts and dead-faced uncle, Torrhen politely bowed, passed Lady Arya the still burning torch, then grabbed Lyaella’s hand before walking casually back to where they’d stood off to the side before when the knights were speaking. Now came the best part of the ceremony, the candle lighting!

Queen Sansa stared after them for a few moments, still looking quite shaken by their choice of names, but she collected herself soon enough and turned back to the crowd.

“The North remembers them,” she said slowly, her eyes flicking over to the twins quickly and then back to the audience. “They remember their courage and sacrifice. And we remember all the others who also died. We remember.”

“We remember,” everyone chanted back.

And that was it. That was it for the queen’s speeches. One by one, everyone in the crowd lit their candles and began quietly murmuring the names of others that died during the War for the Dawn. The twins did the same, Torrhen lighting their lone match and bringing the flame to the wicks of their candles. Waving away the match flame once both were lit, Torrhen passed Lyaella her candle and held up his own towards her. Lyaella giggled, gently tapping her candle against his as though they were clinking goblets.

“In memory of Lyanna Mormont,” she whispered. “The first to proclaim father as King of the North.”

Torrhen snickered. “For the ice dragon, Viserion,” he said. “Mother’s dragon that the Night King killed and added to his army.”

Truthfully, Torrhen really didn’t care if anyone heard these extra two names they said for themselves. But whispering it to each other made it all the more fun. It was like they were committing a great taboo by speaking these names, but they did so anyway because they knew it was right. No one could criticize them for speaking names of those that died during the Long Night. It was their choice who they chose to honor while lighting their candles.

People tended to linger out here for a while. Those who had lived through the tragic War for the Dawn and lost loved ones either lightly cried as they stared at their candles or inched closer to the large bonfire to look deeply into the flames. Those who still had family members with them all gathered together, hugging one another and expressing their gratitude that they were all together now. As Torrhen watched them, he couldn’t stop the tinge of annoyance that welled up inside him. These ungrateful people were all alive. They had each other. They had warm and loving families… yet the only reason they had those things was because of Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen. They had their perfect lives and perfect families, yet he and Lyaella grew up living with the worst people anyone could ever have for relatives. It wasn’t fair.

Lyaella noticed how he was unconsciously glaring at a small boy being lifted up by his mother to sit on his father’s shoulders, and quickly grasped his hand to make him look at her.

“Come on. Let’s grab a plate to go from the kitchens,” she urged. “We’ll eat down in the crypts.”

He brightened considerably. That was probably the best thing they could do right now. Leave it to Lyaella to know exactly what to do.

They set off back to the castle gates, and for once, everyone was more preoccupied with each other to glare hatefully at the two of them. It seemed like their quiet exit from the memorial service would actually go unnoticed, until—

“You two are determined to avoid every important event today, aren’t you?”

The twins had literally just entered the castle courtyard, but the unexpected voice made them spin back around. Lady Arya was casually leaning up against the archway of the main gate, smiling in obvious amusement. Where on earth did she come from? How did she get back through the main gate without anyone noticing?

“Lady Arya!”

“We… We d-didn’t see you there…”

Lady Arya frowned. Straightening up from her spot against the stones arch, she walked up to them. “How many times do I have to tell you two? Call me Aunt Arya when it’s only us or the family.”

Torrhen purposefully glanced down at his sword belt as he sheathed his sword. It was the only way he could purposefully look away to hide his own frown. The day either of them addressed Queen Sansa and Lady Arya as ‘Aunt Sansa and Aunt Arya’ or King Bran as ‘Uncle Bran’ would be the day the Night King returned to life.

The Stark woman’s frown became all the more distinct when she realized that neither of them had any intention of replying to that statement. She huffed lightly. “What are you two up to, sneaking away from the candle lighting? You two love this part of the service.”

“We… We w-were only trying to avoid the main crowds,” said Lyaella, rolling her candlestick back and forth between her fingers. “It’s gonna be… be h-hard for us to get plates from the k-kitchens once the feast starts.”

“Ah, I see. You two must be starving. You weren’t in the Great Hall at midday.”

“It wasn’t a big deal. We just weren’t hungry then,” Torrhen told her. He hoped that would be it and their assassin aunt would leave them be, but instead she smiled.

“And you intend to eat in the crypts? All alone?”

“Ugh, fine. We’ll eat in the kitchens if that’s a problem. Can we go, now? We’re trying to avoid the main crowd.”

“Why eat in the kitchens at all? You both should eat in the Great Hall.”

Lady Arya’s words were so unexpected it succeeded in catching his and Lyaella’s full and undivided attention. “The Great Hall?”

“That’s… That’s a b-bad idea, Lady Arya… T-The feast’ll be starting soon. We’ll g-get in trouble with Q-Queen Sansa…”

“No, you won’t. Sansa’s the one who told me to take you two there,” she exclaimed. “You’re both joining us and Bran at the High Table tonight.”

The twins gaped at her. Then at each other. Then back to her. Generally when feasts happened in Winterfell they were forced to sit in the very back-most corner of the Great Hall while Queen Sansa, Lady Arya and King Bran if they happened to be in the castle at the time, and other important guests sat all the way at the front of the celebrations at the High Table. But not on the night of the memorial ceremony. No, when the feast following the ceremony happened, Torrhen and Lyaella were always forbidden to attend. They ate in the kitchens alone and then were sent straight off to bed. But they never slept at this time. No, they always slipped off to fetch Sōnar and Shadow before heading into the crypts for their yearly ritual. This unexpected change was nothing short of shocking.

“Why?” Torrhen asked. “We’ve… We’ve never been to the Long Night feast before.”

“Reasons,” said the She-Wolf rather cryptically. “Now, come along. Keep dallying and you’ll both get swept up with the rest of the crowd.”

Torrhen blinked at that, but Lyaella cupped a hand around her ear to listen. Sure enough, the sound of various voices talking all at once and steadily growing louder were approaching the castle.

“Come on, let’s get inside.”

Not giving the children a chance to respond, Lady Arya wrapped a hand around each of their shoulders and steered them both indoors. Torrhen could only stare dumbstruck ahead of him as he allowed her to drag them into the keep.

The queen had them both next to her when greeting King Bran and Lady Arya. They had the two of them take part in lighting the memorial pyre this year during the remembrance ceremony. Now they were going to go to the memorial feast for the first time? _And dine with them at the High Table?_

What was going on?

* * *

It was all so strange. She was sitting at the High Table. A place that a small part of her had always wanted to sit at while at the same time never wanted to either. Not when the Queen of the North sat directly to her left and Torrhen on her right was between both herself and the heartless assassin Lady Arya.

Lyaella wasn’t sure what to think of what was happening. People were chattering away and enjoying themselves just as they would at any other feast, yet somehow… everything seemed different this time. Instead of she and Torrhen hiding away in the corner and listening sullenly as people hissed insults to them under their breath and spat on their plates, they were sitting far away from the usual hubbub at the High Table with their only living relatives. Instead of listening to insults from the guests, she was listening to Queen Sansa prattle on and on to King Bran on her other side about the famine the North was currently facing, and instead of staring at her, King Bran, and Lady Arya up here at the High Table while sitting at one of the regular long tables, she was sitting at the High Table and staring at everyone either enjoying themselves or subtly sending her and Torrhen quick glares whenever the queen wasn’t looking.

Backwards. That’s what all this was. Everything was backwards.

She idly played with the slab of meat on her plate with her fork. What was the point for them being here at all? Feasts were only fun because she and Torrhen were allowed extra helpings of dessert if they asked the cooks nicely in the kitchens. The events themselves weren’t all that fun, not when she and Torrhen knew they weren’t truly welcome. Why were the Stark’s doing this? Why were they making it their sole purpose to ensure their nameday this year was the worst one ever?

“Lyaella, stop that,” the queen said swiftly. “You know there’s a food shortage right now. Don’t play with your roast.”

She lowered her fork. “S-Sorry,” she murmured.

“You all right, Lyaella?” Lady Arya asked. “You’ve hardly eaten a thing.”

She nodded. “I-I’m just… surprised, I g-guess…” she said. “We… We’ve n-never eaten up here before.”

“No,” said the distant King Bran. “You both haven’t.”

Torrhen shot their uncle a glare. “Must you always do that?” he grumbled.

The king blinked, slowly turning to look at him. “Do what?”

 _“That!_ Right there! Looking so… _creepy_ when you talk. Can’t you show _any_ emotion when you talk aside from smirking?”

“Torrhen, mind your manners.”

Torrhen huffed. _“Fine._ King Bran, will you _please_ explain why you’re incapable of ever showing any sort of emotion aside from an occasional smirk?”

_“Torrhen Snow.”_

“I said ‘please!’”

“It is fine, Sansa. I do not mind.” King Bran turned a bit in his wheelchair to fully look at Torrhen. “I am far beyond the boundaries of normal human existence with my powers. Showing emotions is so unimportant that I find it unnecessary.”

“W-Well… you should change y-your mind about that, your grace,” said Lyaella. “T-Torrhen’s right. You… You always l-look so creepy…”

The seer blinked at her before slowly smiling. “Perhaps I shall reconsider it. We shall see.”

Lyaella forced herself to smile back when in actuality all she wanted to do was shudder. That creepy smile again. It was almost frightening how he looked right now with his otherwise aloof expression combined with that smile.

She tried to focus back on the crowd, but upon locking eyes with the actively glaring Lord Glover, she averted her eyes to her plate. Torrhen was her twin, and he knew right away what it was that upset her. He was quick with shooting the Lord of Deepwood Motte a nasty scowl of his own.

“Torrhen, enough,” Queen Sansa hissed. “Do not openly glare like that.”

“Why not?” he grumbled. “Lord Glover’s doing so to me and Lya.”

“Lord Glover’s a proud man, I don’t deny that. But he’s also a fool for wearing his emotions so plainly. Proper nobles always keep their emotions hidden from their enemies, that way they never know what they’re truly thinking.”

“Is that w-what Tory and I are to Lord G-Glover?” Lyaella asked, sounding rather hesitant. “We’re enemies t-to him?”

Queen Sansa and Lady Arya exchanged unreadable looks.

“Everyone who is not us is an enemy, Lyaella,” said Lady Arya after a tense silence. “At the end of the day, the only people you two should ever trust is us. Your family.”

The queen firmly nodded. “Remember that, Torrhen, Lyaella,” she declared. “Family is all that really matters in the end. _Never_ forget that for even an instant.”

The twins exchanged mild looks of their own, a thousand words and more they each read in each other’s eyes that were beyond everyone else’s understanding, then they looked back at the Stark’s and nodded. There was a great deal of truth to that statement that even the two of them couldn’t deny. The only reason why it was impossible for the two of them to fully believe it though was that it was being told to them by _Queen Sansa_ of all people. As a woman who had deliberately betrayed the trust of a man who she grown up with and believed for the majority of her life was her half-brother instead of her cousin, she was the last person in the world who had any right to lecture them in the importance of always trusting their family.

“There are other lessons which we should go over with you both now anyway, come to think of it,” she went on. “Both of you, keep eating and looking at us, but do so while discretely glancing back at Lord Glover.”

Lyaella had no idea what the queen was trying to achieve at this moment, but she did as she was told, and Torrhen did the same. Popping a bit of salted roast into her mouth, she kept her head turned directly to be looking at Queen Sansa, but out of the corner of her eye, she spared at peek back over to Lord Glover. The proud old man was _still_ actively glaring at her and Torrhen, his left hand in a shaking fist on top the wooden table. He wasn’t focused solely on them alone anymore though. No, even though his gaze did not shift from the twins for even a second, he was speaking over his shoulder at a lord with the sigil of a silver axe on the clasp of his fur cloak.

“That man Lord Glover is speaking with right now. Do one of you know who that is?”

“Um…”

“He’s… the lord of house Hornwood, right?”

“Incorrect, Torrhen. That’s Lord Cerwyn. What do you think of that?”

“I don’t know.”

“D-Does… Does Lord Glover have a p-problem with Lord Cerwyn?”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Hardly. The two of them hardly ever see each other except at gatherings like this. They’re neither friends nor enemies.”

“And yet they are caught up in a rapt discussion right now while Lord Glover’s glaring at both of you,” said the queen. Taking a quick sip from her goblet of Dornish Red wine, she glanced back at the two of them. “Now, why do you suppose Lord Glover would be so interested in speaking to Lord Cerwyn right now, especially when he’s already quite heated by the sight of you two?”

The twins only stared at each other. They had no idea where the queen was going with this.

Queen Sansa seemed to pick up on this and audibly sighed. “Think. Why would the two of them be speaking so animatedly as they are right now?”

“M-Maybe… Maybe Lord Cerwyn is trying to p-persuade Lord Glover into believing that… Tory and me are good p-people?”

Queen Sansa shut her eyes to hide her annoyance while Lady Arya let out a low sigh. King Bran on the other hand let out a slight chuckle.

“How naive of you to think that, Lyaella.”

Torrhen quickly shot him a glare. “Don’t belittle my sister! That’s a valid idea!”

“No, Torrhen, it’s not. Listen to your uncle, he’s right,” Queen Sansa said. “It is very naive of you to believe that’s what they’re talking about, Lyaella.”

“W-Well… Well, what does it matter? They’re o-only talking…”

“It _matters,_ Lyaella, because Lord Glover has always been quite vocal regarding how much he dislikes you both.”

“Yeah? Well, he’s not winning any good points from us, either.”

 _“Torrhen,”_ said the queen sharply. _“Listen._ Lord Glover’s been twice as opinionated about minor things than normal due to the food crisis. And now he’s even glaring openly at the High Table while fully aware that all of us know what he’s doing, and Lord Cerwyn looks quite worried. Why do you think that is?”

Torrhen rolled his eyes while Lyaella shrugged.

“I d-don’t know…”

“Who cares?”

 _“You_ should care. Figuring out a person’s motives is one way to determine whether or not someone is trustworthy or not.”

“Arya is right, Torrhen, Lyaella. Do you know what I do when I’m trying to understand a person’s motives when I don’t know them?”

“No.”

“What… What d-do you do?”

“I play a little game. I assume the worst. What could possibly be the worst reason they have for saying and doing the things that they do?”

Lyaella frowned. “So… you just distrust everyone right away, your grace?” she asked slowly.

“It’s important to be skeptical of people, Lyaella. Believing in things that you simply want to believe in is something that only fools do.”

Torrhen scoffed in disgust, dropping his fork on his plate. “Didn’t you learn that lesson from that one guy you met in King’s Landing, though? Lord… Balson?”

The queen’s eyes narrowed. “Baelish. His name was Lord Baelish.”

“And wasn’t he the one who arranged for half the bad things that happened to House Stark when you were a kid? You really follow that jerks advice?” 

There was a long pause.

“Torrhen—”

“Listen—”

“C’mon, Lyaella,” Torrhen said, ignoring the two Stark women as rose. “Let’s eat somewhere else. It’s clear that _present_ company is so distrustful of everyone except themselves.” Disgust dripped from his tone.

Lyaella nodded as she shoved away her plate. She was equally appalled. Was this the only reason their aunts and uncle wanted them to sit up here with them tonight? To teach them the rules of the twisted games they played with people? Did they want to teach her and Torrhen to be just like _them?_ Just as cold, distrusting, and downright _selfish?_ They’d been lectured during Lady Arya’s last random visit to Winterfell on how to play her stupid Game of Faces to know when to recognize when someone was lying. They didn’t want to learn it, but Lady Arya refused to leave them alone until she fully taught them. That was not happening again with Queen Sansa’s Game of Trust. Not on their nameday. Not _ever._

They began to walking away from the table, but Queen Sansa’s voice followed them.

“I know you two value honor. I know you both think that the three of us are terrible people because of these philosophies. But you both _need_ to learn them. The world is dark, selfish, and cruel. Hardly anyone ever likes… natural-born children, let alone children who are… Well—”

“What? Bastard children who are _what?_ _”_ Torrhen hissed. “Children who are orphans? Or with two parents of House _Targaryen?_ _”_

King Bran’s vacant eyes flicked to him. They appeared to be twinkling a bit what with how the flames in the large fireplace directly behind the High Table were reflecting in them. “Don’t speak of that now,” he told the twins, emotions otherwise gone. “Too many ears.”

Torrhen growled, fists shaking. He opened his mouth to argue, but Lyaella’s quiet voice spoke up before he could say a word.

“W-We wouldn’t have to be quiet a-about it at all if… if y-you three hadn’t been s-so distrustful and played games with… with our p-parents…”

Queen Sansa’s eyes immediately lost their sharp edge, and even Lady Arya shifted a bit. King Bran would have appeared unmoved, but his brows rose distinctly. Lyaella didn’t want to hear anything the three of them had to say to her statement, though. She spoke the truth, and that was more than any of them had ever done back when their father first brother their mother here to Winterfell with him so many years ago. Let them feel guilty for their own philosophies while playing their games. With that thought in mind, the silver-haired child gently took her dark-haired twins’ hand and pulled him behind her around the High Table and out into the crowd.

Torrhen waited until they had successfully navigated through the mob of bodies to the backmost corner where they generally sat for feasts to clap his hands. “Wow, Lyaella. Wow… you really told the queen off! And you didn’t even snap at her like I did! How’d you do it?”

Lyaella blushed. She sat herself down at the very edge of a bench at the nearest long table. “I… I d-don’t know,” she said shyly, her feet scuffing up the floor a bit as she swung her legs back and forth. “I just said the t-truth…”

“Still… it’s like you planned to say that. You’re always so quiet and meek all the time around everyone except me,” Torrhen went on, sitting down on top of the table surface beside her. Their whole area of the long table was surprisingly empty for the time, so no one was around to criticize him for not sitting down properly on the bench. Unless their relatives or a servant came over to yell at him, he was free to do as he liked for the moment. Glancing around for a moment, he swiped two lone chicken legs off the scraps of a nearly picked clean serving platter. He passed her one. “How’d you come up with that so fast?”

Lyaella felt her cheeks heat up considerably as she averted her eyes, turning the leg over and over again between her fingers. “I didn’t exactly _plan_ t-to say that, Tory… But I don’t deny I’ve thought about it now and then recently.”

Torrhen’s brows rose. “Really?”

Lyaella nodded as she took a bite. Chewing and swallowing was the only way she could calm herself enough to explain her thought process right now. “Queen Sansa… she’s the one most responsible for everything, Torrhen. King Bran might have set the board, Lady Arya opted not to play, but the Queen? She _won_. She won everything because she cheated. She planned for mother to be betrayed and murdered. Father’s death she might not have planned, but she doesn’t seem all that sad about it… With them gone, she was free to become the Queen of the North. She’s horrible… and I hate hearing her talk like that! That we have to learn to become like _her_ and her siblings: distrustful liars and manipulators! I don’t want us to be _anything_ like them!”

“Whot mhoks tuu ah oos.”

“Swallow, Torrhen. Then talk.”

Swallowing his chicken, Torrhen grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, I said, ‘that makes two of us.’ I’m with you there, little sis. All the way. The day the two of us starting acting like any of them—” his head jerked sharply toward the High Table, violet eyes burning with hate “—is the same day we do what we’ve dreamed of doing once Sōnar and Shadow are a bit bigger.”

“Run away?”

“No— well… aye, I guess. Yeah, that’s right. But don’t say that so casually! Last thing we need is for a guard or servant to hear it and report it to the queen. And I meant before that, anyway.”

“Before?” Lyaella frowned, puzzled. Realizing Torrhen wouldn’t offer any more details, she wracked her mind around the idea, trying to remember everything they ever talked about in regards to their longtime dream of simply taking their friends and the few prized possessions they had once Sōnar and Shadow were both a bit bigger and could carry all of them away from the prison that was this castle. It took her a few seconds, but then she sat up straighter, eyes wide. “You don’t mean—?”

“’Course I do,” he said, face dead serious. “We’ve talked about it before.”

“I talked about it, Torrhen,” she said firmly. She quickly stood up and moved directly in front of him so she could look him right in the eye. “I only dreamed about doing that, and you weren’t even part of the dream when I did it. But it was only a dream. It doesn’t mean I plan to do it one day.”

“Fine, but I still think we should do it together whenever we do leave this castle. Give the ice queen and all-seeing raven king one last ‘fuck you’ before we bolt.”

“Is that how the two of you always refer to the Queen of the North and the King of the Six Kingdoms? Not sure I want to know how you address Lady Arya when she’s not listening.”

Their heads spun around. They’d been so caught up with talking they hadn’t even noticed someone approaching them. They’d normally be on edge when forced to speak to visitors during feasts, but upon seeing who it was, they blinked in unison.

“Lord Tyrion,” said Torrhen, hopping down off the table surface. “We didn’t know you were here.”

“It’s been quite some time. I hope you are well,” said Lyaella, politely smiling.

Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock. The last surviving member of the once fearsome Lannister house. Former hand to their mother, Queen Daenerys, and now hand to their uncle, King Bran the Broken.

The middle-aged dwarf seemed even older now than he had when Torrhen and Lyaella had last seen him over two years ago. His golden curls were sprouting more gray hairs than ever, and the wrinkle lines surrounding the thick scar across his face were deeper and more prominent than when they last met him. He’d definitely seen his share of better days.

That didn’t stop him from smiling gently to the children though. “I’m doing well, thank you, Lyaella,” he said, taking out a flask from the inner pockets of his red and gold Lannister tunic. He sat down across from Lyaella as he took a fast swig. “Not sure I can say the same about the two of you, though.”

Lyaella frowned, but Torrhen huffed and glared pointedly at his half-finished chicken leg. Neither of them could exactly deny that.

“You both should work harder at getting along with your aunts and uncle. They’re the only family you’ve got.”

“Don’t lecture us on that, my lord.” Torrhen grumbled. “Things are that way for us _because_ of them… and of _other_ people’s actions.”

Lord Tyrion frowned. “That’s unfair, Torrhen.”

“It’s… It’s not,” Lyaella said quietly. “It’s the truth, after all. N-No one likes hearing t-the truth, but… but t-they can’t run away from it f-forever.”

To Lyaella’s relief, Lord Tyrion didn’t attempt to talk his way around her words. Considering he was one of the genuinely small handful of people who not only treated the two of them with respect, but also personally apologized to the two of them regarding how his actions in the plot that led to their parents deaths resulted in the two of them being orphaned, she would have hated to have been forced to get up and find somewhere else to sit a second time. Her and Torrhen’s personal feelings towards the dwarf of Casterly Rock were extremely mixed due to his past, but they did acknowledge that he was a genuinely good person despite how the history of House Lannister depicted the lion House as a house of backstabbers and ruthless manipulators. Were it not for what it was that led to their mother earning the nickname of the Mad Queen followed by how he and Ser Brienne had taken the time a few years ago to explain how their mother’s father Aerys Targaryen — both their grandfather _and_ great-grandfather — had earned his own nickname of the Mad King and what he planned to do had it not been for the actions of Lord Tyrion’s late older brother Ser Jamie Lannister, otherwise known as the _Kingslayer,_ they probably would have found him harder to like. Plus, he was one of the few people they knew who was willing to tell them good stories about _both_ their parents. For these reasons alone, they didn’t hate him, but they didn’t necessarily like him either. It was all very complicated.

He took another long drink from his flask before speaking again. “I can’t deny that, I suppose. You’re a smart girl, Lyaella Snow.”

Lyaella merely shrugged at that. She personally didn’t believe she was smart. If she was, she’d have figured out a way to avoid drinking Maester Marlon’s disgusting tonic years ago.

“What brings you to Winterfell with the king, Lord Tyrion?” Torrhen asked. “Last time you came for the memorial ceremony, things went bad in the capitol, right? How come you’re not in King’s Landing running everything?”

Tyrion chuckled. “Doing my job as hand of the king, I’m afraid. Business to complete with Queen Sansa.”

“R-Really?” Lyaella asked. “What is it?”

“Oh, just trade agreements. Politics and such. It’s complicated.”

“It’s about the famine, right?” Torrhen guessed. “Are you gonna work out a deal with the queen for food shipments?”

“Ah, well—”

“I-Is King Bran gonna do anything about H-Highgarden?” Lyaella piped. “Lord Bronn… his grain p-prices are too high. Queen S-Sansa’s already taken… taken a loan from the Iron Bank just t-to pay for it.”

“Yes, I heard. Things have been rather bleak lately for you Northerners,” said Lord Tyrion. “I can’t speak for Bronn regarding his grain prices, but I’ll do what I can to convince your uncle to ship more food up here. No reason children such as yourselves should start going hungry.”

Lyaella nodded gratefully as Torrhen took another large bite of his chicken. He made sure to fully swallow it this time before speaking. “Hope you can. Otherwise we may have to ask Ser Davos to smuggle food up here!”

“Where is S-Ser Davos, by the way?” asked Lyaella, craning her head around to see if the old, balding smuggler who acted as the Master of Ships for their uncle was around. “He… He always c-comes to the memorial service.”

“Aye! He promised he’d have a surprise for us the next time we saw him!” Torrhen added eagerly. “Did he skip the feast?”

He blinked at them. “Did your aunt not tell you both?”

“Tell us what?”

“Ser Davos… he passed almost two moons ago. We sent a raven about it.”

Torrhen and Lyaella froze. Unlike their conflicted feelings regarding Lord Tyrion, Ser Davos had always been a man they respected. Despite how he initially served the false king Stannis Baratheon in the early days of the War of the Five Kings, he had later served their father and acted as his hand during his time as the King in the North. He had always been very kind to them. Hearing that he’d been gone for over almost two full moonturns now and their selfish aunt hadn’t even told them about it was a shock for them both.

“Oh…” Lyaella whispered, dropping her small, barely touched chicken leg onto the nearest plate. It almost missed the plate entirely due to how much her hands were suddenly trembling. “I… I see…”

“Thanks for telling us,” Torrhen mumbled. “We appreciate the truth.” He took an enormous bite into his own chicken leg. Without even swallowing it, he took another bite, followed by a third before finding a mug and washing it all down before repeating the process a second time to fully finish the meal.

“I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to be the bearer of bad news.”

“It’s… It’s fine. You didn’t k-know we didn’t know… We d-deserve to know.”

“Still, I’m very—”

“It was good speaking to you, my lord. Perhaps we’ll speak again later. C’mon, Lya.”

Not even giving his sister a chance to respond, Torrhen immediately began walking away, keeping his eyes trained solely on his feet. Lyaella only paused momentarily to give the Lannister a polite curtsy before hurrying after him, her own eyes burning with unshed tears. There was no need for her to ask her brother where they were going now. It was time to leave this stupid feast. They should’ve skipped it entirely and gone on ahead with their usual yearly ritual right after leaving the memorial service. They could’ve lived in blissful ignorance about Ser Davos’ death until tomorrow, at least.

They had almost reached the doors to the Great Halls, but the distinct sound of a utensil gently striking the metal of a goblet made all other sounds in the room gradually hush. Curious as to what was happening, the two of them paused and looked back over their shoulders.

Queen Sansa was standing at the High Table. “If I could have everyone’s attention, I have an important announcement.”

Numerous lords and ladies exchanged curious looks to one another, but nonetheless remained silent. The twins exchanged befuddled looks of their own. No one had told them that the queen would be making an announcement of some sort tonight. Looks like they were forced to stick around for a few more minutes at least. Once she was done with whatever it was she had to say, then they could slip out. They could only hope that she’d make this quick.

Setting down her spoon and goblet, the queen gazed at the crowd with a polite smile. “As the head of House Stark and the Queen of the North, I’d like to thank everyone who came to the memorial service this year. It’s nine years since we faced death during the Long Night, and only more year until a full decade has passed. It’s good to know that the North still remembers the terror it faced not so long ago.”

There was distinct murmurs of agreement from the rest of the crowd.

“That being said… there is another reason why we should never forget the importance of today. I’m sure many of you aren’t even aware of this reason at all, but after tonight, it’ll be something that will always be remembered by everyone.”

“Torrhen, Lyaella?” Lady Arya called out, rising from her own seat. “Come up here, please. Both of you.”

Lyaella felt herself stiffen. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Torrhen full out gaping, but she couldn’t find it in herself to budge a single muscle anywhere in her body. What was going on?

She only snapped out of her shock when she felt Torrhen’s hand slip into hers. Sparing a nervous peek at her twin, she saw her own anxiety reflected in his face for once. He didn’t look like he had the slightest notion of what to make of all this, either. Whatever their relatives were up to, they were doing it without having given either of them fair warning about it. But why?

Swallowing thickly, she kept a firm grasp on Torrhen’s hand as they slowly walked across the long room towards the High Table. It had never seemed so far away before, but with their aunts and uncle watching them impassively and almost everyone else in the room glaring at them with obvious hatred, it seemed to take forever to reach their relatives.

“What’s going on, your grace?” Torrhen asked. “Did we do something wrong?”

“W-We’re sorry if we did…” Lyaella added. “We didn’t know if we… offended you or something.”

To their surprise, Queen Sansa shook her head. “Not at all. It’s just that this announcement is about both of you, so we need you up here.”

“Both of us?”

“W-What do you mean?”

“Wait and listen,” said King Bran tonelessly. “You’ll see.”

Nodding appreciatively at her younger brother, Queen Sansa addressed the crowd again. “Many of you don’t know this, but today is an important day for House Stark for reasons aside from the memorial ceremony. Today marks not only the ninth nameday of our niece and nephew here, but it is also the day that I officially announce my choice of heir to the Northern crown for when after I am gone.”

Curious whispers broke out in the crowd, but Lyaella only stared at Torrhen in utter bewilderment. It was a well known fact that their selfish aunt had no interest in marrying and securing a future heir to the Northern crown. She and Torrhen knew that she had literally _screamed_ profanities at every subtle suggestion made about it by her advisers more times than either of them could count. What she had against marriage and having children of her own was beyond their knowledge. Personally, Lyaella believed that the queen was so distrustful that she would rather rule and grow old alone rahter than share her power with a co-monarch. Announcing that she’d finally chosen a future heir though was a real surprise. She’d always assumed that she’d pass on the title of Queen of the North to Lady Arya one day rather than have a child that would possibly conspire against her should the tensions in the North grow any further.

“Who is your heir?”

“Where is he?”

“Are you going to step down as queen right away?”

“Have you changed your mind regarding suitors, your grace?”

“What does your heir have to do with the dragonspawns?! They’re Targaryen bastards!”

The last inquiry made all other questions the Northern lords and ladies had been shouting hush all at once. Lord Glover looked exceptionally pleased with himself as every face in the crowd immediately turned to the twins. Torrhen forced himself to stare solely at his feet so no one would see his glare, but Lyaella couldn’t help but feel her cheeks burn red hot as she stepped behind him slightly. She hated being the center of attention, especially when it was only caused by people like Lord Glover calling her and Torrhen out for both their bastard status and Targaryen lineage — things which neither of them could help being.

“My heir has everything to do with them, Lord Glover,” Queen Sansa said in a frosty tone. “And I would remind you to take care of how you speak regarding them from now on.”

_“Why?”_

“Because, Lord Glover—” said Lady Arya, smiling innocently _“—they_ are my sister’s heirs.”

There was a full three seconds of complete silence, then everyone began shouting all at once.

_“Them?!”_

“They’re dragonspawns!”

“Your grace! Please, reconsider!”

The shock of the crowd didn’t hold a candle to the shock of the children though. Torrhen had visibly jerked at the revelation and Lyaella nearly fell over due to suddenly feeling lightheaded. They stared at their relatives, jaws dropped and eyes as wide as saucers. They couldn’t believe their own ears.

The queen soon grew tired of all the commotion. _“Enough,”_ she called out sharply. “Sit down, all of you.”

While a handful of nobles looked appropriately chastised and quietly sat down, there were many other proud Northern lords and ladies who full out glared at either Queen Sansa or the twins as they slowly took their seats again. The queen may have quelled the initial disbelief and shouts of protests from the Northerners, but it was clear the fight was far from over. Still, they held their tongues. That was the best one could hope for regarding matters such as this.

“I understand there hasn’t been a good history with house Targaryen here in the North, especially for the Stark’s,” she went on. “The Mad King roasted our grandfather alive and laughed as our uncle was strangled to death while trying to save him. Our late aunt… suffered an ill-fated death due to Prince Rhaegar. Our half-brother, Jon… he died because of everything that happened with the Mad Queen. The North remembers, my lords and ladies, and we Stark’s know that better than anyone. It is our duty to protect the North, and as the queen you chose following our brother Jon’s death, I have done everything in my power to keep the North safe.”

The lords and ladies nodded and murmured their agreement quietly amongst themselves.

“That being said, our niece and nephew are _not_ proper Targaryen’s. They are the children of our brother, Jon. He might not have had the Stark name, but he was every much our father’s son as King Bran, and our other two late brothers, Robb and Rickon. The blood of the First Men runs through their veins just as it does with all of you, and that makes them just as much as Stark’s as our last King of the North.”

“But we’re _not_ Stark’s.”

The sudden interruption made Queen Sansa blink. All across the room, peoples eyes shifted at once to the sullen-faced Torrhen, glaring daggers at a distinct crack in the stone-tiled floor.

Queen Sansa seemed almost surprised by how angry he was. “I… I beg your pardon?”

Torrhen’s eyes slowly slid upward to glare directly at her. There was a brief pause, then he shifted his arms a bit to readjust how his cloak was hanging around him. “I said, ‘But we’re _not_ Stark’s,’ your grace.” The fabric slid away from his hip, allowing everyone in the room to get a good look at the three-headed dragon emblem stitched right onto his training sword scabbard. “We can’t be your heirs.”

Lyaella nodded, her own temper rising as she lightly tugged on the collar of her dress. “Torrhen’s r-right, Queen Sansa.” Feeling her fingers hook around the chain of her dragon pendant, she let it fall out from its hiding spot and hang freely around her neck. “We’re… We’re _Snow_ _’s._ We’re _n-not_ a prince or princess.”

King Bran stared at them with a vacant smile, but Queen Sansa only looked at them with an unreadable expression for a long moment before flicking her eyes to the impassive Lady Arya. Lyaella felt Torrhen squeeze her hand reassuringly, and she squeezed back appreciatively. She knew Torrhen was just as clueless as she was about whatever all this talk about naming them as their aunt’s heirs was. Whatever game the Stark’s were playing, they weren’t going to make it easy for them to win. They didn’t want to play.

“You grew up here in Winterfell just like we did. Just like your father did,” said Lady Arya finally. “You both have a direwolf for a pet just like all of us did long ago. You _are_ Stark’s.”

“We are your family. This is your home,” said Queen Sansa. “The fact that neither of you have the Stark name is only a technicality. One which the three of us have taken upon ourselves to fix.”

Time stopped. Lyaella couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t process what she thought she heard Queen Sansa say. She wanted to say something — anything — to get the queen to repeat herself, because unless she heard it again, she wouldn’t believe it. Judging by how Torrhen’s hand had abruptly slid out of hers, he had to be thinking the same.

“W-What…?”

“Say that again?”

Queen Sansa smiled at their stunned expressions, then glanced off to the side where a servant was standing, carrying two thick scrolls on a small tray. Waving the server over, she looked back at the twins. “Our nameday present for both of you,” she explained.

“It was all her idea, but I admit it was a good one, practically speaking,” said King Bran, his smirk still on his lips.

The servant passed Torrhen and Lyaella the scrolls before moving off to the side again. They were relatively thick and both sealed with thick red wax with the symbol of a direwolf imprinted into it, but the twins made no attempt to break the seals. They barely looked at the scrolls at all. They just stared at each other in shock for several moments before slowly looking back up at the Stark’s in perfect unison.

“What… What is this, your grace?” Torrhen all but whispered, still in disbelief.

Their aunt’s smile only grew. “Open them. See for yourselves.”

Torrhen stared at her for a few moments longer, then slid his fingers slowly in between the paper and the seal, but Lyaella’s fingers were shaking so much she could barely keep a firm grasp her scroll. Torrhen had to take hers away for a minute to break the wax. Lyaella didn’t even acknowledge his help. Her complete and undivided attention was solely on the scroll itself now. Should she blink, anything could happen to it.

Gulping thickly, they slowly unraveled the messages and stared, wide-eyed, at the fancy writing drafted inside.

“From this day forward, your names are not Torrhen and Lyaella Snow, but Torrhen and Lyaella _Stark,_ _”_ Queen Sansa proclaimed proudly. “You have the same rights as any other true-born Stark’s and are now the first and second heirs in line to the Northern crown.”

Lady Arya grinned. “You both go from being bastards to the legitimate crown prince and princess of the North. You have the same titles now as my sister, and neither of you have to address any of us as ‘your grace’ or ‘lady’ anymore while in public. You can finally address us as your aunts and uncle at any time.”

“The North will be yours one day,” said King Bran. “Neither of you have reason to leave at all.”

“You both will begin your lessons to become a proper crown prince and princess first thing tomorrow. I’m sure things will seem a little stressful at first, but there’s no rush. You’ll soon be—”

The sound of two sheets of parchment shredding into pieces abruptly cut off the queen.

The twins said nothing as they both ripped the royal decrees into shreds, but despite how shocked everyone there was as they watched, their expressions said more to them than a thousand words. Torrhen was so red-faced and on the verge of turning purple his anger was undeniable. Lyaella was whimpering as tears flooded her eyes, but her white teeth were bared to show just how hard she was grinding them together.

As always, King Bran’s expression did not change in the slightest despite the unexpected reactions of his niece and nephew, but Lady Arya’s smile vanished entirely as her mouth fell into a small ‘o,’ and Queen Sansa’s could only gape at the twins in shock. The initial disbelief followed by absolute joy they had seemingly been expecting to see from their niece and nephew was definitely _not_ what they were witnessing from the twins.

At last both scrolls were nothing more than small shreds of parchment fluttering to the ground. Lyaella was still attempting to muffle her tears as she glared with wet eyes at the scraps on the floor, but Torrhen ever-so-slowly raised his head to glare directly at the Stark’s. He was literally quivering with rage.

“You — You _dare_ to — You—” he thrust his finger at Queen Sansa, so furious he couldn’t even find words. Lyaella had never seen her brother so angry in her life, but she would not attempt to calm him. He had every right to be mad. “You… You’re playing _games_ with us, aren’t you?!”

Every onlooker there was silent in disbelief at what they were witnessing, and Queen Sansa couldn’t help but flinch at her nephew’s tone.

“I… Torrhen?”

“What… _What is this?!_ _”_ he demanded. “What the _hell_ is this?!”

“Why are you screaming?” Lady Arya demanded, still rather dumbstruck. “You and Lyaella… you’re legitimate now. Real _Stark_ _’s.”_

“We… We’re officially making you part of the family…” said the queen, her eyes slowly descending from Torrhen’s flushed cheeks to the bits of parchment scattered across the stone tiles. “We thought… We thought—”

“Y-You thought _what_ exactly?” Lyaella’s whispered words seemed to echo even louder than Torrhen’s shouts of outrage as she looked up. She could hear the sound of her heartbeat drumming back and forth inside her head in her haze of fury. “You… Did you t-think such an _insult_ _…?_ Are we s-supposed to be _happy?_ _”_

“Insult…?”

“Yeah! Insult!” Torrhen raved. “What are you playing at?! You trying to make up for _your_ choice of being alone and hateful by making us your heirs?!”

 _“_ Torrhen, Lyaella—”

“How dare you… How _dare_ you! You people _plotted_ to get our _mother_ killed! Your _scheming_ got our _father_ killed! You took away our chance to _have_ a real family! A real _name!_ And now — now you think you can give us _your name?!_ What the _hell_ is this?!”

“You… You’re t-terrible!” Lyaella wept, shaking her head in disgust as hot, furious tears streamed down her cheeks. “You Stark’s are terrible! We don’t _want_ to be Stark’s! We don’t want to be _anything_ like you people! You… _What is wrong with you?!_ _”_

Not waiting for any sort of reply, Lyaella seized Torrhen’s hand and bolted to the doors of the Great Hall as she completely burst into tears. No one tried to stop them. They let them leave. She was beyond thankful for that. Had someone attempted to stop them, she would have lost it. Not that she hadn’t lost it now what with bursting into tears like this, but had someone dared to stop her right then… she had no idea how she’d react. Not when every instinct in her body was screaming at her to get away.


	3. The Past Can Be Rewritten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the slight delay in posting this chapter. I could have sworn I posted it on Saturday, but I guess it slipped my mind, lol! I can't guarantee when Chapter 4 will be posted, because unlike these fast updates for Chapters 1 through 3, Chapter 4 isn't finished yet. It might take a little bit of extra time. I'll try to get it done as soon as possible though!
> 
> Also, the song in this chapter was inspired by the fanmade song 'A Promise of Spring' by Karliene on Youtube. I highly suggest you look it up and listen to it. I did SERIOUS TWEAKING to the lyrics to make the song original for the twins to use in this chapter! All credit to the original song belongs to the extremely talented Karliene! My tweaking the lyrics was to keep her rights to the original song all hers, and this song as mine. I am NOT trying to take credit for the original song!
> 
> Please, leave a nice comment when you're done! The current reception count for the story on Ao3 is 34 comments, 80 kudos, 19 bookmarks, and 1533 views. I'm hoping the comment count will bump up to 50 with this chapter, lol! After all, one comment = +10 minutes worth of writing time! :D
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> \- Elphaba818

Lyaella ran. And she ran. Torrhen didn’t try to tug his hand away as she dashed down the empty corridors. She knew he wouldn’t do anything at all to calm her until they were safely away from everyone. She was too upset, and he was too angry. _She_ was angry. Never again would they attend another feast after the memorial ceremony for the Long Night. She would rather starve for an entire day than take one step in the Great Hall again on their nameday in the future. Better to go hungry like the majority of the smallfolk in the North these days than endure another insulting feast like _that_ ever again.

It wasn’t until she realized she had led them out into the courtyard did she finally stop. It was a good thing she did too, considering Torrhen abruptly let go of her hand and started kicking the nearest barrel.

“The nerve of her! The nerve of _all_ of them!” he shouted, kicking the barrel as hard as he could over and over again. It toppled over on his third kick, but that didn’t deter Torrhen. If anything, he slammed his foot into it even harder. “That _bitch!_ That’s what she is! The fucking _Bitch of the North!”_

“I… I h-hate her, Torrhen,” Lyaella wept, burying her face into her hands as she wept. “How… How can she be that… t-that _cruel?_ She… She w-wanted to erase our Targaryen h-heritage! She didn’t even h-have the _decency_ to… to admit that you were _right_ about u-us being her… her way to avoid getting married and h-having her own children…! _I hate her!”_

Torrhen didn’t seem to hear a single word she said, he was so focused on kicking the barrel. But it wasn’t enough for him. Letting out a furious growl, he stormed away from the barrel while unsheathing his sword, and began whacking it against a training dummy with all his might.

“Bitch—of—the—North!” he yelled with every sword strike. “All—hail—the—bitch! Fuck—her! Fuck-her! _Fuck—her!”_

Lyaella’s eyes bulged, stunned by his violence. “Tory!”

“Fuck—direwolves—crowns—queens— _Starks!_ Fuck—it—all!”

_“Tory, please!”  
_

She dashed forward, hugging him abruptly from behind before he could strike the training dummy again. Her tears soaked the black fur of his gray cloak.

“S-Stop…” she begged him, burying her face deeper into the fur lining. “Please… p-please stop, Tory. _Please…”_

Slowly, Torrhen lowered his sword, then dropped it abruptly as he spun around to hug her.

“Don’t cry, Lya,” he told her numbly. _“Don’t._ Our goddamn relatives aren’t worth any tears.”

“I… I can’t help it,” she mumbled. “I don’t know what else to do… I’m _not_ about to start hitting things like you…”

“No? Then I’m gonna tell you _exactly_ what we’re gonna do. We’re going down to the crypts.”

“N-Now?”

“Aye, _now._ Go on ahead, light a torch. I’ll get Sōnar and Shadow.”

Nodding at her twin, Lyaella sniffled and wiped away her tears, then set off for the crypts as Torrhen hurried to the kennels. He was right. After a nameday as horrible as this nameday had been, they needed to visit the crypts more than ever, _regardless_ of their yearly nameday tradition.

Descending down the stone steps to the crypts, Lyaella felt around the walls in the darkness until she found what felt like the handle of one of the many unlit torches lining the crypt stairs. Grabbing hold of it, she felt around in her cloak pocket for the extra match she had kept after the candlelight memorial service, and ignited it against the wall. Waving it out once the torch was ablaze, she used it to light the other numerous torches lining the walls until she heard the familiar footsteps of her brother, their direwolf, and their dragon approaching behind her.

Sōnar and Shadow seemed to instinctively sense Lyaella’s distress, and the moment they saw her they both hurried right up to her, Shadow sweetly licking her fingers as Sōnar nuzzled her body affectionately with her head and neck. Lyaella basked in their attention as Torrhen gave the lit torches a quizzical glance.

“Why bother lighting the torches? We could have had Sōnar do it on her own.”

“I just wanted to light them myself.”

“Okay, whatever. Just come on, before our relatives send someone after us.”

They descended further into the crypts, only stopping once in a while for Lyaella to light more torches on the walls. The crypts would generally be considered a haunting place to others what with all the statues of the long-dead Starks seemingly staring at those who visited the tombs, but for Torrhen and Lyaella, the crypts were a place to escape to whenever they wanted to be alone. They _despised_ their living Stark relatives more than words could describe, but they did not share that anger towards their ancestors buried in the crypts. Their ancestors on their father’s side of the family were innocent of the terrible things the last three living Stark’s had done to them and their parents so many years ago. And besides, visiting the crypts was literally the only way they could get even the _vaguest_ idea of what their father looked like back when he was still alive.

They both knew the crypts like the back of their hands. They knew _exactly_ which way to go, but they stopped a few times on the way to their final destination. It was necessary to stop. For all the lessons that their heartless relatives shoved down their throats all the time, one lesson they liked learning about was about the fates of their two other uncles who had died before they were born. The first King of the North in recent memory, Robb Stark. And then the youngest Stark sibling, Rickon Stark, who died while on the battlefield prior to the fateful Battle of the Bastards between their father Jon Snow and the House Bolton bastard, Ramsay Snow, who with his father Roose Bolton had long ago usurped the North from the Stark family for a short time. But thanks to their father and — to their dismay — Queen Sansa, they took it all back.

“Uncle Robb, Uncle Rickon,” said Torrhen solemnly as Lyaella quickly lit the memorial candles at the statues. “Hope you’re well.”

“W-We… We never knew either of you, but… but I h-hope neither of you think t-terribly of us for… for how we hate y-your sisters and your brother, K-King Bran…” Lyaella murmured. “Please… Please if y-your listening… f-find it in your heart to f-forgive us…”

“Wish we could’ve known you both. I don’t know what you two would’ve done if you’d known about Father’s true identity, but even if you both didn’t like Mother… maybe you could’ve convinced your sisters and brother not to betray him.”

“Even if… n-neither of you could’ve done that, p-perhaps you would’ve liked us… Treated us b-better, at least… Nobody really r-remembers you aside from… aside from talking about h-how you died, Uncle Rickon. Were you a good person? If you were, would you’ve been nice to us? And Uncle Robb? I know people say you were even s-stupider than father, but… but you knew what love was. You lost your crown because you fell in love. Would you have loved us? We’re Jon’s children with the woman he loved and gave up his crown for.”

“Why’d you both have to die, anyway? Had one of you lived, you’d be king now! Not the Bitch of the North!”

The flickering flames of the torches and memorial candles made the shadows dance on the statues faces. It was sad, what happened to the late King Robb and young Rickon Stark. The first being betrayed while attending a wedding and having his head chopped off followed by his direwolf’s head sewn onto his headless corpse and paraded about mockingly by his enemies. The other struck by an arrow while running for his life from the madman Ramsay Snow to reach their father, who sadly failed to save him. These days, everyone called Robb Stark the King Who Lost the North, and Rickon Stark the Fallen Wolf. Yet their relatives? Aside from giving them the basic facts about the deaths of their two uncles, they never spoke about them at all. They never spoke about _any_ of their dead family members unless absolutely necessary. Including Jon and their father, Ned Stark.

Lingering only a moment longer at their uncles statues, the twins then wandered over to the statue of the solemn-faced man who had apparently been their relatives father and their own father’s adoptive father . Their great-uncle, though officially to keep their father’s birth identity a secret, their grandfather. Meanwhile with the statue of the pretty young woman directly to the right of him, the reverse was true. Officially their great-aunt who died from a sudden fever after being kidnapped and raped by the late Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. But secretly, she was their father’s mother, who ran away with the dragon prince, married him, and died in childbirth shortly after Rhaegar was slain on the Trident by Robert Baratheon. She was their grandmother, Lyanna Stark.

“Lord Stark, Grandmother,” Lyaella whispered, smiling politely to both statues. “I hope you’re both well.” They’d agreed long ago that the best way they could address their father’s adoptive father was by his official title. He wasn’t _really_ their grandfather after all, but it was too risky to address him as their uncle, either. Why their relatives were so adamant on keeping their so-called half-brother’s birth identity a secret so many years following his death was beyond their understanding. But they knew better than to tempt fate regarding it. This was one of the few rules they knew for a _fact_ the Stark’s would genuinely punish them for if they dared to break it.

“Lord Stark, you’re surviving children are all terrible people,” Torrhen snapped, glaring up at the statue. “They’re all selfish! Why’d you have to be so dumb back in King’s Landing and get yourself killed?”

“Torrhen!”

“What? I’m only asking, Lyaella. You know if he’d lived, our stupid aunts and uncle probably wouldn’t have turned out half as cruel and selfish as they are now.”

Lyaella had nothing to say that. He was most likely right, after all.

Glancing over at their grandmother, Torrhen’s expression softened. “I’m sorry you died, Grandmother. Lya and me? We wish we could have known you. I’m sure Father must’ve felt the same when he found out who he was.”

“Tory’s right, Grandmother,” Lyaella piped. She gently touched the stone outline of Lady Lyanna’s dress. “We… We don’t know much about you since hardly anyone’s still alive who remembers you… but… but I’m sure you were a good person. Anyone… Anyone who can look at a dragon and… and see the _goodness_ in them instead of as the monsters everyone else sees _must_ be a good person…”

There was silence in the crypt as they stared up at the stone face of the Lyanna Stark. They wouldn’t hear any sort of reply from her. They knew that. Still… it’d be nice to see a sign of some sort that would show them that if there was indeed an afterlife out there, their grandmother had heard them. It didn’t have to be big. Just a little sign so they’d know she’d been listening.

Staying a few moments longer to light the candles for Ned and Lyanna Stark, the children ventured over to the statue to the right of their grandmother, their direwolf and dragon right on their heels. This was the statue that they’d come down into the crypts to visit, after all.

The stone statue depicted a young man with a firm-looking face. Curly hair tied back, he wore a long fur cloak and held a sword in front of him with the pommel of a wolf’s head, and a second carving of a massive direwolf sat protectively near his feet, it’s stone eyes seeming to watch the children with every step they took.

Jon Snow. The King of the North and secretly the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

The twins smiled at the statue. Their father. Not a real Stark, but everyone claimed he upheld the values and honor of Ned Stark better than any of the late lord’s surviving children. He had been foolish, but he had been a good king. Probably would have gone on to be an even better king than the Queen of the North and the Broken King combined had he managed to take the Iron Throne alongside their mother.

Their mother… there was no statue for her in the crypts. She was the Mad Queen, after all. The cruel Queen Sansa would never allow a statue of their mother to stand alongside their father. But even if she had, there would be no body to go along with it. Following her death, people claim that their mother’s last surviving dragon had carried her away somewhere east, across the Narrow Sea. No one knew for certain where Drogon had taken her body, not even the supposed all-seeing Three-Eyed-Raven, but people claimed they’d seen glimpses of Drogon living in the desecrated ruins of Old Valyria today, though. The twins knew that was true, so if Drogon was there, then their mother’s corpse was most likely rotting away somewhere in the ruins with him. Those that hated her claimed it was fitting justice for all the terrible things she’d done while she was alive, but the few that insisted she’d been a good person shared in the twins heartbreak. No one deserved to have their body all but forgotten like that.

That being said, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a small tribute to Queen Daenerys Targaryen anywhere in the crypts. One just had to know where to look. Smiling up at the stone face of their father, Torrhen and Lyaella sidestepped slightly around the statue to stand directly on the left hand side of it. Lyaella held the torch high overhead as Torrhen scanned the stone folds of their father’s cloak.

“Can you find it?”

“Not yet, give me a sec.”

“We should’ve put it somewhere slightly more visible, then we’d have an easier time finding it whenever we come down here.”

“Yeah, but then the Stark’s would see it, too. It’s annoying looking for it, but it’s better this way, Lya— oh! Here it is!”

Lyaella peered over his shoulder. Torrhen’s fingers gently ran over a handful of scratches that had been deliberately carved into the stone folds of the statue’s cloak. But they weren’t actually scratches. They were words. Two words, to be exact. _Daenerys Targaryen._ They had carved them into the stone two years ago when they finally were able to spell their mother’s name properly. It was all they could do to give their mother some semblance of proper remembrance and to let her soul stay with their father always.

The twins stared fondly at the inscription for several moments, then stepped aside to allow Sōnar and Shadow the chance to inspect their small tribute to their mother. They had to set up their yearly ritual anyway before they could even properly greet their parents.

Lying at the feet of their father’s statue were a handful of unusual items. Aside from the additional candle for their mother which Torrhen procured from his cloak pocket, there was a heavy history book bound with thick leather lying on the ground and two musical instruments. A lute and a lyre. They ignored the instruments for now though and instead pulled the book toward them. _The Song of Ice and Fire,_ written by the archmaester at the Citadel chronicling the history of all the wars that happened in both Westeros and Essos following the death of King Robert the Usurper. Flipping the book open to a random page, they left it open on the ground beside the instruments and lit the two candles for their parents.

As Lyaella stepped away to put the torch into a nearby empty wall sconce, Torrhen felt around the statue’s cloak to feel the inscription of their mother’s name, then gazed up at their father’s stone face. “Hello, Father. Hello, Mother,” he said thickly, throat bobbing a bit with emotion. “It’s us. Torrhen and Lyaella.”

“We brought Sōnar and Shadow with us,” Lyaella added, joining him again as she leaned into the dragon’s side for support. Sōnar butted her head gently against the little girls’ shoulder to comfort her. “It’s… It’s the anniversary of the Long Night again. And our nameday, too.”

“We’re nine now. Seems like yesterday we came down for last year’s memorial service, when we turned eight.”

Silence filled the air, the stone eyes of their father staring unseeingly at the statue of a deceased Stark lord across the row.

“We… We know we haven’t come down to visit much this past year,” Lyaella whispered, gently stroking Sōnar’s scales as she stared sadly at her feet. “We’re sorry… we know we should have…”

“Yeah, we were wrong not to,” Torrhen agreed, his fingers idly tracing over the messy ‘D’ in their mother’s name. “It’s… It’s not that we didn’t want to, it’s just… It’s hard, Mother, Father. Coming down here, seeing only your statue, Father, but not one of you, Mother. And there’s Ghost’s statue… but…”

His words trailed off, hot tears swimming in his eyes as his hand balled into fists.

Lyaella patted his shoulder comfortingly as Shadow whined softly, nuzzling up against his side. Her eyes were welling with tears, too. It was too hard to think about that, let alone talk about it just to the statue of their father and messy inscription of their mother’s name.

“We… We were genuinely insulted by Queen Sansa, King Bran, and Lady Arya just before we came down here, Father,” Lyaella said. Torrhen glanced at her through his watery gaze, but he didn’t dare let a single tear fall. “They… They were all stupid enough to think that we’d be _happy_ to be legitimized as _Stark’s_ for our nameday present…”

“The nerve of them!” Torrhen snapped. “It’s _their_ fault we’re Snow’s, anyway! You grew up with the last name Snow, Father, and you… you were still named King of the North! And Mother… you loved him even when thinking he was only a bastard. It didn’t matter to you! Father, why couldn’t you have _really_ been a bastard? We… We don’t think Mother would’ve gone crazy if not for that and your cruel sisters and brother.”

Again, there was no reply from the statue, but Torrhen simply pressed his forehead against the cold stone of their father’s cloak. A statue couldn’t offer any comfort, but he wanted it to. Pretending it would suddenly come alive and clap a comforting hand on his shoulder the way he always imagined his father would was the only solace he had.

“We… We wish you were here, Mother, Father,” Lyaella whimpered. Following her brother’s example, she pressed her cheek against the messy inscription of their mother’s name in the stone cloak and shut her eyes. Why couldn’t there be a statue of her down here? Aside from how people claimed she looked just like their mother aside from her gray eyes and maintaining no hairstyle at all with her silver hair as opposed to the great crown of braids their mother wore like a crown, she and Torrhen didn’t even know what she looked like. Was she taller than father? Shorter? Did she have a heart-shaped face? What about her smile? Closed lips or teeth showing? Did she have dimples? They had no idea, nor would they ever know. “Everyone hates us… We hate the Stark’s… We hate how things turned out for both of you… But Tory and me? We don’t hate either of you! We… We love you both so much!”

She burst into tears again and hugged the statue tightly. She’d done so before during past visits, hug their father’s statue, but this time, it wasn’t Jon himself she wanted to be hugging. She wanted her mother. She wanted to hug a beautiful statue of Daenerys Targaryen and pretend she was hugging her back. Just for a moment.

Torrhen said nothing, but his shoulders shook slightly as he kept hiding his face against the stonework. At their sides, Sōnar and Shadow whimpered and nosed their arms, offering what little comfort they could to their human charges. Whatever emotional pain the twins felt, the dragon and direwolf felt, too.

It seemed to take an eternity, but finally Torrhen poked his head out from the stone folds of the statue’s cloak. His face was dry and he maintained a neutral expression, but no facade of innocence could hide how red and puffy his eyes and cheeks were now. He gently tugged his still sobbing sister away from the statue before promptly sitting down on the crypts’ floor.

“We still need to flip through the book, sis,” he said quietly, tone flat and dead. “We need to recount all of mother and father’s adventures before playing for them. We’ve been training Sōnar and Shadow to help us, you know.”

Lyaella nodded, brushing away the tears from her eyes. “’Kay…” she murmured, sitting down beside him.

Motioning for Sōnar and Shadow to sit down too, the twins began scanning the pages. They did this every year on their nameday following the memorial ceremony. They’d fetch Sōnar, Shadow, the _Song of Ice and Fire_ history book, and their musical instruments and go down into the crypts to visit their father’s statue. They’d talk to him and by extension their mother for awhile, read the tales in the book about all the amazing feats their parents had accomplished during their lives, and then play music for the two of them for a short time while Sōnar and Shadow snuggled up to them. Though this year, their dragon and direwolf would contribute with the music part. As Torrhen said, they’d been training Sōnar and Shadow for an entire moonturn now to assist them with the melody and rhythm for tonight.

As Lyaella read a random sentence on the page they’d left the book open at, her expression brightened considerably. “Hey, look! This page’s all about mother!” she cried, pulling the book towards her slightly to see the page better. “It’s all about when she conquered the slave city of Meereen!”

“Really?”

“Yeah! See this part, here?” she said, pointing at a particularly lengthy paragraph. “It’s all about how she had to name a champion in her army to go against the champion the Mereenese slave masters named for themselves when she arrived at the city. And see this part? On the next page? Here it talks about how she had numerous Unsullied warriors sneak into the city to rally the slaves! Led by Commander Grey Worm!”

Torrhen scowled. “Grey Worm?” he scoffed.

Lyaella frowned. “Torrhen—”

“No. Don’t give me that look, Lyaella. You know I’m not gonna change my mind about him.”

“I don’t think—”

“He’s a cockless asshole. And he demanded justice for our mother’s death against the _wrong_ person. Our _father._ He should’ve demanded justice against the people who _plotted_ for her betrayal and eventual death. Not the one who was manipulated into doing it!”

Lyaella sighed heavily. “I know. I hate that he didn’t think about that, too. But everything we’ve read about him… he sounds like he was loyal to Mother. I don’t think his role in everything was _intentional.”_

“I don’t care,” Torrhen huffed. “We could’ve at least had Father in our lives were it not for him! That jerk better be either dead from Butterfly Fever or sleeping with one eye open every night! Whenever we can get out of Winterfell once you two—” he paused, turning to run his fingers through Shadow’s thick fur and stroke Sōnar’s neck “—are bigger, we’re gonna fly straight to the Isle of Naath! I don’t care if he’s supposedly one of best warriors in all the world! I’m gonna kill that fucker myself!”

“Torrhen!”

“I’ve already decided this, Lyaella! Nothing you say’s gonna change my mind! Were it not for that asshole Grey Worm, we’d at least have Father! Is that or is that not the truth?!”

Lyaella stared at him heavily for a time before sighing and gazing down sadly at the book.

Torrhen gave her a pointed look. “Truth or Half-Truth, Lya. Come on, it always applies.”

“The rules let me to abstain from answering, Tory,” she shot back. “You’re the one who insisted that little cheat be allowed when we invented this game. Don’t get mad at me for using that rule against you right now. So long as I’m not lying at all, I’m allowed to do this.”

Torrhen huffed loudly, annoyed that he couldn’t deny her logic. Shadow trotted up to him, plopping down beside him and laying his head in his lap. The boy bit back a small smile as he scratched the black direwolf behind the ears. Lyaella refrained from commenting as Sōnar curled up in a ball around her as she too laid down. Better to let her brother stew quietly from a minor annoyance rather than make a fight about it. After the worst nameday ever, they needed to stay united right now, not fall apart over petty squabbling.

“Say what you will about Grey Worm, Torrhen. I don’t deny I’m angry with him too about father… but he still helped mother end slavery forever in Essos. We can’t let ourselves hate the one person who’s both still alive and always loyal to mother, and helped her achieve the only good deed people tell of her legacy. Even the _Starks_ claim they’d never seen such unwavering loyalty from a person from _anyone_ aside from father himself and Ser Lady Brienne.”

“Not true, Lyaella.”

“But I’m not lying!”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant you forgot Ser Jorah Mormont. And the other knight.”

“Other knight…? Do you mean Ser Podrick?”

“No, I— wait… actually, yeah. We should probably count him, too. His loyalty’s unquestionable. But I meant the other knight who was loyal to _mother.”_

Snatching the book from Lyaella, he went back in the chronicles a handful pages before skimming the text. Not seeing whatever it was he was looking for, he went back even further. Reading the first handful of words, he smiled.

“See? Look here, at this page.”

Lyaella glanced quizzically at Torrhen, then looked down. Her eyes quickly widened.

“Oh!”

“Yep. Barristan the Bold, kingsguard to — grandfather or great-grandfather? Dunno. — Mad King Aerys, and fought with Grandfather Rhaegar on the Trident. He traveled across the Narrow Sea just to serve in mother’s Queensguard, and fought valiantly at her side as she ended slavery in Essos. He was a true knight!”

Lyaella giggled, but moments later, her expression saddened. “Yes, he must’ve been very loyal to mother, just like Ser Jorah. Such a shame he died back in Meereen during a Sons of the Harpy riot… Had he made it back to Westeros with mother, maybe… maybe the Starks would’ve been more willing to listen to her.”

“I doubt anything could’ve convinced them otherwise about mother, Lya. You know what they’re like. Still… things could’ve gone differently if he’d still been around. I don’t know.”

Shrugging herself at the notion, Lyaella flipped through numerous random pages. It didn’t matter where she landed so long as she landed on a page pertaining to father next. If it were about mother again or a historical fact related to someone other than their parents right now, they’d skip it. Their rules when reading this book on their nameday was to alternate in finding one story about one parent followed by the other, then play a song together before repeating the process until they got tired. Reading about unrelated tales about other people that took part in the long War of the Five Kings or the Long Night occasionally interested them, but tonight was all about their parents. Lady Arya may have technically killed the Night King nine years ago, but the _true_ heroes during the War for the Dawn were undoubtedly their parents even though hardly anyone ever spoke about them. Without Jon Snow, no one would have been prepared for the threat so many years ago, and without Daenerys Targaryen, the North would have fallen for sure, and the rest of Westeros would have fallen with it. The Northerners didn’t want to remember that, though. They remembered only what they wanted to remember.

Finally finding another page that was devoted solely to Jon Snow, Lyaella set the book down again so they could read the story. Torrhen’s anger all but evaporated when he realized what it was Lyaella had found.

“Oh, cool! You found the Battle for Hardhome, Lya!”

“Hardhome… wasn’t that where… where father first supposedly saw a white walker for the first time? Wasn’t it stealing a baby or something?”

Torrhen laughed. “You’re confusing Hardhome with Craster’s Keep. That’s where father and Grand Maester Sam first met Sam’s wife, Lady Gilly.”

Lyaella grinned sheepishly. “Oh, right… but father first fought against a white walker while at Hardhome, right? If he saw a white walker at Craster’s stealing a baby, why didn’t he try to save it?”

“Hmm… I’m not sure. We’ll have to look for that story next. But Hardhome’s _definitely_ where father fought a walker for the first time. See? Says so right here! He even killed it with his Valyrian steel sword!”

“Woah…”

“I know… He and all the Wildlings he saved fought at Hardhome. They battled the army of the dead! That’s even where father first saw the Night King for the first time! It must’ve been an amazing battle! Wish I could’ve seen it!”

“I still say the army of the dead is rather unbelievable…”

“Say whatever you want, Lyaella. I _know_ it existed. It and the Night King. Father was a legendary hero! Isn’t that right, Father?”

Lyaella had to suppress a snicker at how wonder-struck Torrhen looked as he gazed up at their father’s statue once again. Her brother was admittedly obsessed with being as brave and strong a fighter as the amazing Jon Snow had been. He was already very good with a sword, and whenever he had a chance to train her, she too was gradually improving. Perhaps they’d be able to run away and become knights like Ser Brienne and Ser Podrick one day. With no more Night’s Watch around for Northerners with nowhere else to go to obtain honor for their families, becoming knights was the only thing they honestly could do to pursue a path of honor in life, and even if the Night’s Watch did still exist, it wouldn’t matter. The Night’s Watch only allowed men to join its ranks. Torrhen could join, but she couldn’t. Aside from Sōnar and Shadow, the twins were all each other had. They had to stick together all the time. If they allowed themselves to drift apart and turn on each other the way the _Stark’s_ did to their father — their adoptive half-brother — they would be no better than their selfish relatives.

Shaking her head at Torrhen’s silliness, Lyaella picked up her beloved lyre. “Ready for the first song, _Icy Fire?”_ she giggled.

Torrhen blinked at the nickname, then rolled his eyes before pushing the book aside and collecting his lute. “I should be the one asking you that, _Fiery Ice,”_ he teased. Lyaella giggled a second time as he turned to the white dragon and black direwolf. “Sōnar, Shadow? Remember what we told you both before about howling on cue, rumbling on the downbeat? Well, we need you both to do that _exactly_ when we tell you right now! We’re playing in front of Father’s statue so he and Mother can hear us! Do your best, okay?”

A wagging tail and a gentle rumble answered him. Lyaella gave them each a loving kiss on their foreheads to express her happiness. “Good girl, Sōnar! Good boy, Shadow! Remember, it’s just like how we practiced! Just follow our leads! What should we play first, Torrhen?”

“Let’s see… what about ‘ _No Hope of Spring_?’”

“Are you sure? It’s a little grim, you know…”

“Either that or ‘ _Howl of the Dragonwolves.’_ Take your pick.”

 _“‘No Hope of Spring’_ it is.”

Taking only a moment longer to effectively tune their instruments, Torrhen calmly plucked the strings of his lute as Lyaella’s fingers gently strummed a soft melody with her lyre. It was a traditional Northern tune, very somber and melancholy with Torrhen’s lute being the focal instrument to carry the melody. The lyre on the other hand simply harmonized, Lyaella acting as accompaniment in the background to further accentuate the beautiful music. After only a handful of notes, a quick signal by Torrhen and Lyaella gave Shadow and Sōnar their cues. The direwolf began to howl along in time with Torrhen’s fingers plucking away at his lute, and the dragon let out a low rumble in time with the beat of the song. It was an enchanting symphony of sound all together, two strings instruments playing traditional music as a direwolf howled in tempo to the lute as a dragon rumbled to the overall rhythm.

Then the children started singing.

_Peace is an illusion,_

_Broken swords,_

_Hatred known._

_‘Cause there’s nothing to believe in,_

_There’s no good lords_

_To claim the throne._

_The world was changing,_

_And the wolves were frightened._

_Now there is no new beginning,_

_No good king,_

_No good queen._

_‘Cause no one did sit_

_On the Iron Throne._

_The heirs were extinguished,_

_One in madness,_

_And one with snow…_

_No hope for tomorrow,_

_Only sorrow,_

_And empty halls._

_No expanding horizons._

_Land or sea_

_Or beyond walls._

_The world is aging,_

_The strong have rebuilt it,_

_But Winter never ended,_

_And there’s no hope_

_Of Spring…_

_‘Cause no one did sit_

_On the Iron Throne._

_Queen Sansa of the North_

_And Bran the Broken,_

_They were chosen,_

_They spin the wheel…_

_They spin the wheel…_

_Beyond the Northern mountains,_

_The last dragons,_

_Out of sight…_

_Our parents were heirs,_

_To the Iron Throne._

_But they were ruined_

_By others undoing,_

_Their song didn’t last…_

_Their song didn’t last…_

_Their song didn’t last…_

The lyrics were so beautiful, yet even sadder than the melody itself, and they echoed with perfect clarity against the crypt walls. But as the last echos gradually trailed off, Lyaella’s fingers gently eased off her lyre’s strings and Torrhen’s notes on his lute slowly softened. Shadow’s howling stopped rather abruptly as soon as the beautiful sounds from the lute vanished in the air, but Sōnar kept rumbling along longer, so long in fact that even after all other musical sounds had let up, she was still going for quite some time, but at long last she finished.

The twins glanced at each other for a few moments once everything was still and silent, then they broke out in abrupt laughter as they petted their friends.

“Shadow, you’re howling’s great, but you gotta keep it up _longer_ after I stop playing!”

“Sōnar, you sounded wonderful, but you can’t keep rumbling _forever_ once everyone else is done! You have to let up sooner than that!”

Sōnar merely butted her head against the little girl as Shadow cocked his head sideways slightly as he stared at his boy. The innocent routine the two were giving the twins only made Torrhen and Lyaella laugh harder.

“Shameless, aren’t you, Shadow?”

“You’re so sweet, Sōnar.”

“Such a beautiful song. ‘Tis only a shame it had such a sad ending.”

Within seconds, Torrhen was on his feet and drawing his sword as Shadow growled ominously at his side. Lyaella scrambled to her feet behind him and looked around frantically, Sōnar wrapping her whole body around her protectively as small gusts of smoke escaped her nostrils.

“Who said that?!” Torrhen demanded. “Show yourself! Right now!”

From out of the darkness came a single shadowy figure. It drew closer, and as soon as the persons’ features were discernible in the flickering lights from the torches and candles, the twins blinked in surprise.

“My apologies, my prince, my princess,” said Lady Kinvara, folding her hands gently in front of her as she approached. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Sōnar and Shadow quickly relaxed. Shadow panted lightly as he trotted up to the red priestess, tail swaying as he allowed her to sink her fingers in his black fur. Sōnar warbled, inching forward a bit to curiously sniff the stranger. Lady Kinvara let the dragon to do as she pleased, softly brushing her fingers over a small spatter of winter rose blue scales mixed amongst all the white.

“Such beautiful creatures,” she crooned. “A black direwolf and a snow white dragon… both so protective. And kind, too. The Lord of Light blessed you both with such wonderful companions, Prince Torrhen, Princess Lyaella.”

Torrhen simply stared at her as he lowered his sword. “I’m no prince, and Lyaella’s no princess. We told you before,” he said. “And you don’t belong down here. Get out.”

“Torrhen!” Lyaella hissed, jabbing him sharply with her elbow. Turning to the priestess, she made a small, hesitant curtsy. “F-Forgive my brother. We’ve… We’ve b-been having a bad day. But he is c-correct, my lady. This is… is the Winterfell c-crypts. Only relatives of House S-Stark are allowed down here.”

Lady Kinvara smiled. “My apologies, I meant no disrespect, my princess. I simply did not know when else I would get the chance to speak to you both in private.”

“Did you not hear me the first time? Don’t call us _prince_ or _princess._ Our names are Torrhen and Lyaella _Snow.”_

“You were both born to be more than mere bastards, Prince Torrhen. To not call you by your rightful titles of prince and princess would be beyond disrespectful.”

Torrhen’s grip tightened on the hilt of his training sword, but he didn’t raise it towards her nor snap at her again. With hot-tempered and easily angered he was, it was the best one could hope for.

“Do y-you need something from us, L-Lady Kinvara? You… you said you wanted t-to speak to us privately?”

“Indeed, I did, Princess Lyaella. The entire purpose of my journey to the North was all so I could find both of you.”

“B-Both of us…?"

“Say again?”

“The Lord of Light has willed me to carry out his wishes regarding the two of you, and as his devoted servant, I do what he asks of me.”

The twins stared at her for several moments before exchanging bewildered looks. Neither made any attempt to break eye contact until they sensed their direwolf brother and dragon sister pressing up against them and begging for soft scratches and cuddles.

“You’ve earned yourself another minute’s worth to be down here,” Torrhen told her, sheathing his sword so he could scratch Shadow behind the ears. “So talk. What does your lord want with us?”

“We d-don’t… We don’t believe in your lord,” Lyaella murmured, stepping closer to Sōnar for protection. She picked up her lyre and passed Torrhen his lute. “We _barely_ b-believe in the Old Gods… So w-why should we believe whatever you h-have to say?”

“Because the Lord of Light is not your enemy. If anything, he is on your side.”

The little girl blinked, confused. “O-Our side?”

Torrhen scoffed. “Never thought there’d be something I’d agree with our relatives about, but I guess they’re right when it comes to Red God worshipers. You’re nuts if you think we’re on the Starks side.”

“Not the side of the Broken King, the Queen of the North, and the Many-Faced Assassin. _Your side._ The side of the union between Ice and Fire.”

Lyaella was beyond lost. She chanced another quick look at Torrhen, wishing she could know if he was wondering the same things she was about all this. What did this woman want? Did she know about their father’s true birth identity? If so, why was she preaching about the Lord of Light? What did the deity of a foreign religion have to do with them? Judging by his expression, Torrhen seemed just as perplexed as her.

“Our side is just that. _Our_ side,” he said after a long pause. “There’s no one in the world who’ll ever agree with us completely with what happened to our parents. Even if there was, it doesn’t matter. The past is over and done with.”

Lyaella nodded, turning to look up at stone statue of Jon Snow. “Our… Our parents are d-dead,” she said numbly, idly tracing the scratched letters of their mother’s name. “Our uncle is a useless S-Southern king… our one aunt doesn’t care to be around… and our o-other aunt stole the Northern crown from the c-chosen king. They plotted with others to… to kill our m-mother, and didn’t care that their g-games killed our father, too.”

“Those who could’ve done something about it either plotted with them, turned their backs on our parents, or didn’t know anything until it was too late,” Torrhen spat. “Everyone got their happy ending except them. And _us._ No one cares.”

“That’s where you are wrong, my prince. _I_ care, and so does the Lord.”

A sad sigh and a dismissive snort were her only replies.

The priestess frowned. “You both don’t believe me. Do you not hold faith in anything at all, like your skeptical relatives?”

“It’s… It’s not that, my lady,” said Lyaella, leaning her head into the welcoming warmth of Sōnar’s neck. “We don’t _ever_ want t-to be anything like them. It’s… It’s just that—”

“The very _idea_ of there being someone who honestly agrees with us about everything is unbelievable by itself, let alone by some woman we’ve never met and claims her god agrees with us, too,” Torrhen jumped in. “If this is your way of wanting to see if we’re as mad as they say our mother was or gullible our father had been, then get out. We’ve had a shitty nameday and we’re determined to have whatever’s left of it be better than it was.”

Throwing the red priestess one last dirty look, Torrhen stomped back to where he’d been sitting before and plopped himself down.

“Come on, Lya. Let’s play another one.”

He twanged the stings on his lute, his furious glare directly solely at his fingers as he focused on playing. Lyaella thickly gulped, but hesitantly joined in after only a few missed chords. She was too shy to deliberately snap at Lady Kinvara the same way Torrhen did, but she didn’t fault him for demanding she leave if that was indeed her intention. If she was messing with them out of spite towards them or their parents, then she shared in her brother’s annoyance. Go away and leave them in peace for the few hours that remained of their terrible nameday.

They were only a few notes away from singing the beginning of another, but what Lady Kinvara said next made Lyaella pluck the wrong string and Torrhen drop his lute.

“I’m sure things must’ve been very hard for you both growing up, especially with _all_ the one’s you’ve lost without ever truly knowing.”

Lyaella’s head snapped around to stare directly at Lady Kinvara, as did Torrhen’s. Her face was frozen in shock with eyes as wide as saucers, but Torrhen’s lower lip trembled, appearing genuinely scared for the first time. Eyes watching the priestess like a hawk, he wrapped his right hand around Shadow’s body, tugging the direwolf closer to him. Lyaella unconsciously imitated him, scooting as close as she possibly could against Sōnar.

“Who… Who are you?” she whispered, voice relatively small. “What do you w-want with us?”

“Screw that! _What_ do you know about us?!” demanded Torrhen. “What do you know about our father? Or… or about—”

“I know that both of you have lived the life of bastards due to interference by an agent of the Great Other. I know that I have interpreted visions in the flames from R’hollor that the illusion of peace that people believe they are living in now is on the verge of collapsing because of the scheming of the Great Other’s agent. The North as you know is enduring a terrible famine, and Queen Yara and the Ironborn are still invading your shores. Many highborns aren’t pleased with how your aunt is handling it. The Reach is on the verge of complete rebellion due to how Lord Bronn is overtaxing everything, while the other kingdoms can’t afford his grain costs. Dorne has followed his example out of spite for what happened to the Martell’s during Robert’s Rebellion and then when they supported your mother. They’ve tripled the cost of their wine exports. Come to think of it, I believe that’s one of the minor reasons why the Northern lords aren’t happy with the Queen of the North. Everyone knows she spends a good deal of gold for their wines. She’s already behind in her loan payments to the Iron Bank.”

Torrhen rolled his eyes, but Lyaella was disgusted. They both knew their heartless aunt preferred Dornish Reds over Northern ales after spending so many years in the South, but they didn’t realize importing it was so costly nowadays. She was deliberately spiraling the North into debt just so she could drink? Did Lyaella only get whatever was leftover whenever Maester Marlon had to mix that disgusting tonic of watered down wine with owls blood for her lung problems? She would never drink that nauseating potion again, not after this. End of story.

“Lord Edmure in the Riverlands has been distancing himself recently from both your Stark relatives and his other nephew in the Vale. He’s still bitter that none of them rescued him from his captivity with the Frey’s once they came into power. There’s been rumors he’s been reforming the Riverlands army for quite some time, as have the Stormlands. He and Lord Baratheon have been meeting frequently for quite some time. I am unsure as to why, though many in Westeros believe they mean to incite a war against your uncle.”

“W-We heard a little about that before… We thought it was only… only a r-rumor.”

“Aye, the Westerlands are the only one’s not causing problems. And we heard the wolves cousin up in the mountains wanted to be independent. King of the Vale or something. He come to his senses about that yet?”

“Lord Robin Arryn _has_ actually named himself king. He and Valemen have officially sealed themselves off from the rest of Westeros.”

This actually surprised Torrhen and Lyaella. They stared at Lady Kinvara, not believing their own ears.

Lady Kinvara smiled at them evident surprised. “I’m not surprised you both didn’t know. It really only happened two days ago. I don’t imagine even your relatives are aware of it yet. I myself wouldn’t know had the Lord not have told me in the flames earlier this morning. But rest assured, King Robin has had enough of being seen as spineless and gullible. He’s decided the only way to be taken seriously is to be completely independent. The Westerlands are the only kingdom not undergoing any form of political strife or potential rebellion as we speak. The Crownlands though… they’re very upset with your uncle. He’s planting so many weirwood trees throughout the land that the smallfolk and nobles believe he’s forcing your Northern customs on them. The other kingdoms aren’t happy about that either, but they also believe their privacy’s invaded with him as king. Seeing glimpses of the future, anything in the past, and spying on them anytime he wants through his ravens… they’ve had enough of it. One small push and Westeros will spiral into warfare and chaos again. Just as they are in Essos.”

“E-Essos?”

“What do you mean?”

Lady Kinvara blinked at them for a moment, then let out a light laugh. “I assure you both, my prince, my princess, neither of you need to be afraid or hesitant to ask about your mother’s empire. As High Priestess of the Red Temple in Volantis, I assure you both that we have already dedicated ourselves to helping the freedmen during the last siege. With R’hollor’s help, things should get better.”

Torrhen and Lyaella just stared at her blankly.

“Siege?” Torrhen asked.

There was a long silence, but Lady Kinvara’s smile gradually faded away. “Yes, the last siege,” she said slowly, her shoulders suddenly stiffening. “Both of you… you two _do_ know what’s happening in Essos, yes?”

Lyaella felt her stomach drop. “Q-Queen Sansa… she’s dedicated to Northern independence. She doesn’t deal with Southern… Southern matters…”

Torrhen nodded stiffly. “We only hear vague rumors every now and then about what’s going on with the rest of Westeros, and even those we aren’t sure if they’re true or not. What you mentioned before? Aside from the King of the Vale and the Dornish wine imports, we may have heard some people talking about it, but not a lot. Essos, though? All we’ve heard about them is through that book over there.” He raised a shaky finger at the history book, eyes still fixed on Lady Kinvara.

“No one… No one from Essos has come t-to the North in… in _years._ N-Not since the Long Night war, I t-think… Not that we know of anyway…”

“The Second Sons are still protecting the people over there, right? Mother’s empire… was there a minor rebellion or something?”

Lady Kinvara stared at them, incredulous. She turned away for a moment, swallowing thickly as she gazed at the statue of their father. She didn’t seem to know what to say. “I… Forgive me, my prince, my princess. I simply… I just wasn’t expecting this…”

“W-What’s going on in Essos?” Lyaella pleaded, her dread only growing with every passing second. “The Bay of D-Dragons… it… it s-still exists, yes?”

The priestess pressed her lips together, still staring solemnly at Jon Snow’s statue. Finally, she turned back to them and reluctantly met their eyes. “The Second Sons, Captain Naharis… he and his men abandoned their post in Meereen shortly after the news of Daenerys Stormborn’s death became public knowledge throughout Essos.”

“W-What?”

“No!”

“It’s the truth, Prince Torrhen, Princess Lyaella. You’re both probably unaware of this, but Captain Naharis only pledged the Second Sons to your mother’s cause because he loved her. But with her gone, he had no reason to keep his men stationed in Meereen and they resumed their former lifestyle as sellswords for hire. Without him and his men upholding the peace, the masters easily took over again. The Bay of Dragons is long gone. Slaver’s Bay was officially reborn a little less than two years after Queen Daenerys died.”

The world spun away as Lyaella’s legs lost strength.

“Lya!” cried Torrhen, grabbing her before she fully collapsed.

“I… no…” she whispered, eyes locked on the red priestess as she slowly righted herself with Torrhen’s help. She hadn’t fainted, only become momentarily lightheaded. “No… that’s not true!”

Torrhen nodded, eyes still trained on his sister should she actually faint. “You’re… You’re lying! The masters — they’re still the _former_ masters! Mother ended slavery! She _ended_ it!”

“I’m afraid it’s the truth. I had no idea neither of you knew. I’m so sorry.”

Lyaella’s tears ran freely down her cheeks, and she promptly flew into Torrhen’s arms to cry into his shoulder. Torrhen didn’t complain. He just hugged back and let her cry, trying to suppress his own tears.

“The… The freedmen,” Lyaella croaked, poking her head out from his shoulder to gaze at Lady Kinvara with puffy eyes. “They’re all s-slaves again? None of them… None of them r-resisted…?”

“The freedmen… They’re slaves again, yes, but your mother’s influence instilled fighting spirit in them. They’ve been resisting as best as they can throughout Meereen, Astapor, and Yunkai, plotting so many rebellions over the years that Slaver’s Bay is officially considered to be a civil war zone. You should be proud of them, my prince, my princess. I am certain your mother would be if she saw them now, fighting in her memory to reclaim their freedom.”

“Proud?!” Torrhen snapped. “How can we feel proud about that?! We’re… We’re _devastated!_ Mother’s campaign for ending slavery was the one thing undeniably _good_ in her legacy! Now you’re telling us it’s not only gone, but it’s been gone for _years_ and no one told us?! You— You— _You can’t imagine what we’re feeling!”_

With a furious growl, he shoved Lyaella away, found a random rock on the ground, and suddenly threw it as hard as he could against the crypt walls. He did this repeatedly, finding as many rocks as he could in the nearby vicinity that he could hold at once and throwing them against the wall. Shadow whined worriedly, pressing into his side. But Torrhen ignored his wolf, he was so angry. Lyaella didn’t do anything in regards to her brother’s anger, she was too upset. She just buried her face into Sōnar’s neck and kept crying. Sōnar crooned comfortingly, unfurling her wings so Lyaella could get even closer.

Lady Kinvara watched them for a short time, her expression full of heartfelt sorrow. She waited until Torrhen officially stopped growling and throwing stones and Lyaella’s sobs had dwindled down to quiet sniffles before going on.

“I know you’re both hurt by this news. I know things cannot have been easy for you both growing up, but I know that if your parents Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen were both alive right now, the delicate balance in Westeros would not be nearly as frail as it is, and Essos would not be enduring the horrors of slavery once again,” she stated. “The Lord of Light never intended for your parents to die, my prince, my princess. They were Azor Ahai and his Nissa Nissa reborn. They were to be the ones who would end the Long Night once and for all. The Lord _never_ wanted such horrible deaths to happen to two of the most important people in his plan to restore peace and order to the world.”

Torrhen frowned. “Yeah? Then explain why they’re dead. If you’re supposed Lord didn’t _want_ them dead, then why are they? Why did he _let_ them die while the real monsters took everything from them?! Why’d he let us be _raised_ by those monsters?!”

“I cannot answer your last two questions because I myself do not know the answers to them. The Lord hasn’t shown me anything that could explain why things happened the way they did. As for your first question, my prince, I stated before that it was due to meddling by one of the Great Other’s servants that led to your parents deaths. Were it not for that meddling, the Lord would have seen to it that they would’ve been happy when the Long Night finally ended.”

“Y-You’re confusing me, Lady Kinvara,” Lyaella said, drying her eyes. “Who… Who is the Great Other? And who is this servant of his you’re talking about?”

Lady Kinvara fell silent for a moment, seeming to muse over her words. “The best way I can describe the Great Other is to say that he is the darkness to R’hollor’s light. The direct opposite to the Lord himself. He is the equivalency of pure evil compared to the Lord’s good will. As for the agent… I do not know that either. The Lord has already struggled immensely just with sending me visions in the flames about how the Great Other had one of his subordinates pulling the strings back then. Anytime he tries to show me more, magical interference cuts him off.”

Torrhen rolled his eyes. “So much for the Lord, then,” he muttered.

“Do not mock his name, Prince Torrhen. And it is _not_ R’hollor’s fault that he cannot show me more. It is due to further meddling by the servant of the Great Other.”

Lyaella tilted her head, a line forming between her brows. “Are you… Are you s-saying that this servant is _still_ p-pulling the strings?”

Lady Kinvara only smiled.

Torrhen stared at her for a time before glancing back to Lyaella, then turned back to Lady Kinvara while shaking his head. “Look, we want to believe you. Really, we do… but you know this sounds insane, right? You really expect us to believe there’s some… some hidden puppet master out there who _wanted_ things to turn out the way they did for their own self-serving reasons? All so this Great Other anti-god would benefit instead of your Lord of Light?”

“He’s your Lord too, my prince. The Lord of Light is the only true god there is. The Great Other knows that R’hollor’s goodness and purity is the only thing stopping him from corrupting all of mankind. Your parents would’ve upheld the true Dawn of Peace the Lord intended for the world had the Prince and Princess that were Promised been able to alert mankind to the real threat beyond the Night King and his army. The world has never known what true peace and freedom is, because the night is still dark and full of terrors.”

“T-The Long Night is over, though… Lady Arya k-killed the Night King.”

“Aye. If that weird prophecy you people believe in about the Prince or Princess _was_ about one of our parents, then it was all a great big _lie._ Our mother lost it all when trying to be fair to the North, yet they cast her off and plotted for her to be betrayed. Our father was manipulated into killing her… and for what? Just so everyone but them could get their happy endings? He’s dead, too!”

“You both misunderstand and misheard me, Prince Torrhen, Princess Lyaella. The Long Night never ended. It can never end unless this last agent of the Great Other is stopped once and for all, which is why the world has been stuck in limbo of a never-ending Winter for the past nine years with no hope for Spring to come. And I said the Prince _and_ Princess that were Promised were unable to bring the True Dawn, not one or the other.”

Silence filled the crypts, the crackling of flames the only sound to be heard. Vaguely, Lyaella was aware that Sōnar was gently nudging her shoulder with her head, but she couldn’t find it in herself to acknowledge her dragon sister. She couldn’t even remember how to turn her head to look at Torrhen or Shadow.

“Why are you t-telling us all this?” she hesitantly asked. “If… If s-someone has to stop this… this servant, then w-why tell us? Why not tell King Bran? Or Q-Queen Sansa?”

Torrhen nodded. “We hate the Stark’s, but go talk to them about this. Lady Arya will track them down easily. They’ll be dead by the end of the week. Heck, if she can’t do it, they’ll send every great swordsman they know to kill this guy!”

Lady Kinvara tensed. “It’s not that simple. The Great Other’s agent has had nine years to gather strength while Westeros suffered. He’s far too powerful now. Even if he stood alone against a whole army, it wouldn’t matter. The Great Other’s power flows through him, and that makes him a greater threat to mankind than even the Night King. Only Azor Ahai and his Nissa Nissa reborn can defeat the darkness and restore light and order to this world.”

“But… our parents are dead.”

“Yeah. Unless you know of some weird ritual that can make our mother’s body appear in front of us and bring her and our father back to life, that’s impossible.”

For some reason, Torrhen’s statement seemed to genuinely surprise Lady Kinvara, and the twins were both left befuddled as she let out a light laugh.

“What’s so f-funny?” Lyaella asked.

“Nothing, dear princess. Nothing at all,” she replied, forcing a smile to stop herself from laughing again. “I was only surprised how your aunts and uncle wish you both to learn everything, yet they’ve told you _nothing_ whatsoever.”

“P-Pardon me?”

“What?”

“The Lord of Light didn’t send me here to revive the Mother of Dragons and the King of the North. He had me come here to help the only ones who can _prevent_ their stories from ending so soon.”

Lyaella was grateful Sōnar was leaning up against her, because if not for her dragon, she was certain she would have lost all support in her legs. She felt dizzy. Jon Snow, Daenerys Targaryen… they were _dead._ They’d both been dead for nine years. If they couldn’t come back, then how could their stories change?

Torrhen was no different. He was frozen in shock as he stared at the priestess, his mouth open slightly and eyes bulging. Shadow had to nudge him a bit to snap him out of it, but even then it barely helped. All he could do was close his mouth and thickly gulp.

“That… That makes no sense…” he muttered, shaking his head ever-so-slightly. “We… We want them back. We’d do anything to have them back… but they’re gone. You can’t stop someone from dying if they’re already dead…”

“T-Tory’s right. You… You’d h-have to go back in time to do s-something like that… That’s impossible.”

Lady Kinvara smiled. “Only cynics and skeptics use that word, refusing to accept what they already _know_ to be true. But when people are willing to open their minds to belief, the impossible _becomes_ possible.”

Torrhen and Lyaella stared, hope building up inside their hearts and bursting to be set free.

“Are you s-saying-?”

“You don’t mean-?”

“History must be rewritten if there’s to be any hope for the future. Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen are the only one’s who can bring about an end to the Long Night once and for all.”

Tears of joy sprang into Lyaella’s eyes, and Torrhen let out a whoop of excitement. Their direwolf and dragon were equally thrilled, and they too let out elated warbles and whines.

“You can go back in time to change things then, Lady Kinvara?” Torrhen asked, his smile stretching from ear to ear. “You can convince our mother not to burn down King’s Landing? And talk our father out of killing her?”

“Y-You plan to stop our parents from drifting apart?” Lyaella added, wiping away her tears. “You’ll stop our father f-from finding out about… about the _secret?_ And stop our r-relatives from using it to plot our p-parents deaths?”

“Oh, it is not I who the Lord intends to have travel back in time. It is both of you.”

“U-Us?”

“Wait, what?”

“The Lord showed me in the flames. He showed me visions of both of you in the past, standing side by side with the true king and queen against the darkness.”

“But we’re just kids!” said Torrhen. “We’re not strong enough to help!”

“W-We’re… We’re not the one’s y-you should send…” said Lyaella. “We’re n-not that smart… and w-we’re _sick.”_

“Lyaella…”

“It’s the _truth,_ Torrhen. Y-You know that.”

“None of that matters,” Lady Kinvara interjected. “The Lord has showed me both of you with them in the past. I have seen you, my princess, sobbing in the kings’ arms while you were both covered in blood and fire blazed. I have seen you, my prince, sleeping against the queen after blood itself was on your lips and wind ran rampant around you both. These visions are meant to happen, but in order for them to happen, I must carry out R’hollor’s will so you can both change the fate of the world.”

“But… But w-what about Sōnar and Shadow?” Lyaella piped, quickly wrapping her arms around Sōnar’s neck. “We can’t just l-leave them behind.”

Torrhen nodded, petting Shadow as the wolf pressed up against him. “Lya’s right. We don’t go _anywhere_ without them. Tell your Lord to find someone who’s loyal to both our parents memories if we can’t bring them.”

“No need to fear about that. Your dragon and direwolf are both able to go back with you. But there is one thing that I must warn you of now, Prince Torrhen, Princess Lyaella. If you do indeed choose to accept this task, there is no coming back. The world as it is now? It will be gone. Gone forever. The people you know in this lifetime? There’s no guarantee they will live to see the new world you both will help make alongside the king and queen. And there’s also a chance others might be saved, others whose stories ended far before they should have.”

“Really? Like who?”

“That depends entirely on what you both say or do in the past, young prince, and how others react to whatever decisions you make. A few words of caution, though: Do not attempt to alter too many things that happened in the past, and tell no one about being from the future unless you absolutely trust them. Some events happened the way they did for a reason. If you change too many outcomes or tell someone untrustworthy who you both are, the delicate balance of time could be disrupted and the agent of the Great Other could take advantage of the chaos to create a future far worse than the one we are currently living in.”

Torrhen shuddered. Lyaella flinched.

“We… We understand…”

“Anything else we should know?”

“Yes, and this is the most important point of all. Above all else, do not — I repeat — _do not tell the king and queen you’re their future children until the time is right.”_

It was as though a dam had been broken. Within seconds the twins were crying out their protests.

“W-What?!”

“No!”

“They’re— They’re our _parents!”_

“We’ve never known them!”

“I-I-I wanna be hugged b-by my mother!”

“I wanna spar with my father!”

Sōnar let out furious screech, her wings flapping wildly in anger. Shadow growled, his hackles rising on his neck as he flashed his fangs. The anger and misery Torrhen and Lyaella were feeling were felt through their bonds to their direwolf and dragon. If their humans were upset, they were upset. It was as simple as that.

The protests would have never ended had Lady Kinvara not have silently held up a hand. “I understand how this must sound. I can’t begin to imagine the pain this must cause you both to hear this, being told you can both meet the parents you’ve always wanted to know yet are not allowed to tell them who you both are, but please, _listen._ If your parents knew the future before the time is right, the future will _definitely_ become much worse than it is already. That is one thing the Lord has been quite adamant about when I’ve interpreted his visions. If you both wish to build a new world, you _must_ agree to this. You must not tell them who you both truly are until the time is right.”

“And _when_ will it be the right time?” Torrhen demanded. “How will we know it’s okay to finally tell them? We deserve to know that much if we can’t tell them right away.”

“Believe me, you’ll know. The Lord promised you’d both know when the time finally comes.”

“But _when,_ exactly?”

“You’ll have to discover that for yourselves.”

Torrhen snarled. Fists clenching tightly, he opened his mouth to argue further, but Lyaella gently grabbed his wrist. Eyes shining with desperation, she looked at him silently, pleading him to let it go. They could live with not being able to tell their parents who they were if it meant they could spend even a second with them both. To be able to meet them, talk to them, _hug_ them even once… to have all four of them be together the way they should have all along had it not been for the selfish whims of others in this world… Lyaella knew they were being offered a tremendous gift, one many others would do anything to get. Torrhen had a short fuse, but she was _not_ about to let him ruin this for them by losing his temper with the red priestess.

Thankfully, Torrhen heeded her unsaid words and slowly closed his mouth.

“You both must choose. Do you wish to save the parents you never knew? Do you wish to be part of their story even though they will not know they are your family and you yourselves will have no home to go back to? Or do you wish to stay here in the present with the family you have and in the home you grew up in? Do you wish to continue living in this era where your lives have already been shaped due other people’s choices? Remember, there is no coming back to this time-line if you return to the past.”

This wasn’t even a choice at all. The decision was obvious to Lyaella. She promptly looked over at Torrhen to see if they were both on the same page — him choosing otherwise would be the only reason she would go against her own heart. One look proved that that fear was unfounded. He shared in her beliefs about this not even being a choice when the answer was already so clear. Nodding firmly to one another, they both looked over at Sōnar and Shadow. A happy tail wagging and a set of wings fluttering eased any other lingering doubts, and they both turned to the red priestess in unison.

“We have no real family in this time-line. And Winterfell has _never_ been a home to us.”

“W-We… We want our parents. We _choose_ the family we should have had. The home we _want_ to have.”

Lady Kinvara’s red lips smiled brighter than they had before. “I speak for the Lord when I say he must be happy that you have both chosen well, Prince Torrhen, Princess Lyaella.”

“Stop calling us that, please. We’re just Torrhen and Lyaella Snow.”

“I call my prince and princess by the titles they have always had and will have to get used to should they succeed in this mission. Follow me.”

Motioning for Sōnar and Shadow to stay close, the twins gathered their belongings and started following the red priestess back to the stone steps leading out of the crypts, but she immediately plucked their book of _The Song of Ice and Fire_ out of Lyaella’s hands.

“You must not bring this with you to the past. There must be no proof of the events that happened in this time-line. Should someone discover it, they could seriously ruin the new world that you’ll both create by trying to change things for the better or worse than they originally happened.”

Understanding her point, Torrhen and Lyaella nodded and left the book by their father’s tomb. Clutching their instruments and each other’s hands tightly, the boy and girl hurried after Lady Kinvara out of the catacombs with their dragon and direwolf at their heels. They had no idea where Lady Kinvara was taking them and she strolled purposefully across the castle courtyard without pause, but they could only hope she could do whatever it was she was supposed to do to send them back in time with just a snap of her fingers.

“Where are we going, Lady Kinvara?” Lyaella asked.

“Not too far, don’t worry. We just need to be in the place where magic is strongest here in Winterfell to strengthen the blood magic ritual.”

“Blood magic? Rituals?” Torrhen asked, slightly alarmed. “Why’s that necessary? Blood magic always has a price, doesn’t it? Why’re you sending us back in time that way? ‘Cause if there’s some horrible life or death thing that’s gotta be paid, we’re out.”

“Tory—”

 _“No, Lya._ Don’t you remember all that stuff in the book about Stannis Baratheon and that one red priestess? Melisanna or something?”

“The priestess Melisandre?” said Lady Kinvara. “I remember her. She was a devout follower of the Lord. She is who myself and my fellow priests came to Winterfell during the memorial ceremony to remember.”

“Right, well, she first believed that Stannis was that prince of prophecy thing you said our parents are. And she used blood magic to help him! She killed so many men to use her magic! She even talked Stannis into killing his own daughter! We’re not doing that if that’s the price for going back in time! We’re not murderers.”

“Only death can pay for life, Prince Torrhen. It is the price of life itself, not just for those of us who worship R’hollor. But rest assured, this particular type of blood magic does not require a life to be sacrificed in order to use it.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No. What it requires is complete destruction of the current time period. That is why neither of you will ever be able to return. This time period will cease to exist in order to send you both back.”

The twins exchanged mild looks of surprise, but neither voiced any further questions or complaints. As they were allowed to back in time with their dragon and direwolf, they had nothing they valued in this world that would make them want to stay except perhaps the statue of their father down in the crypts with the inscription of their mother’s name scratched into it. But if they could save their parents, there was no need for them to take it. They would have their parents from now on instead of just a statue to visualize their father and vague descriptions from others to imagine what their mother must’ve looked like.

Before long, Lady Kinvara had brought them to her final destination, the area already filled with her various red priests who had guarded her on her journey to the North. A handful of them were drawing various symbols in the snow, but the rest were either murmuring to each other quietly or helping to stoke a large fire they had built off to the side. All of them carried an unlit torch for reasons unknown.

Torrhen and Lyaella didn’t follow Lady Kinvara any further however. Not when she had led them to their absolute most hated place in all of Winterfell.

The Winterfell godswood, at the base of the ancient weirwood tree.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, turning to them upon realizing they weren’t coming closer to the rest of the group. “You still want to go back to the past, don’t you?”

Lyaella bit her lip, eying the face carved into the trunk of the Heart Tree while shuffling somewhat closer to Sōnar. “I-Isn’t there… Isn’t there a-anywhere else in Winterfell you can d-draw magic from?” she asked.

Lady Kinvara and the other red priest were all taken aback. The priestess tilted her head in confusion while the priests glanced at each other in surprise. “R’hollor was very insistent that we perform the ritual here,” she said. “The Lord of Light is the only one true god, but the magic in weirwood trees that you Northerners worship in the name of the Old Gods has the greatest beacon for magic anywhere near Winterfell. It must be done here.”

Torrhen sighed, shifting from one leg to the other as he glared at a smile pile of snow off to the side. Shadow whined lowly and shimmied his head beneath one of his boys’ hands. It didn’t distract him at all. “Do we have to get so close to the stupid tree?” he grumbled. “We hate going near it.”

“It must be done there, beneath the red leaves. Magic is strongest directly in the vicinity of the weirwood tree.”

“Ugh… fine,” Torrhen groaned.

“Y-Yes… okay,” Lyaella whispered.

As the boy slouched his shoulders in annoyance and dragged his lute behind him and the girl hunched up slightly in apprehension and squeezed her lyre tightly, they slowly ventured closer to the group of R’hollor worshipers at the base of the heart tree, but made no attempt to wander any closer to it than necessary. If anything, Torrhen seemed to glare directly at the all-seeing eyes carved right into the tree trunk while Lyaella avoided looking at the face at all. The priests were further puzzled by their behavior, but Lady Kinvara signaled them to not comment on it. Whatever reason the children of Azor Ahai and his Nissa Nissa reborn had for disliking the Winterfell weirwood, it was of little consequence. They had to hurry and fulfill the Lord’s will of sending Torrhen and Lyaella back in time.

“Both of you, stand in the middle of the circle on the ground with your dragon and direwolf.”

The twins nodded. Sigaling Sōnar and Shadow to follow them, they stepped into the middle of the large circle the priests had drawn into the snow and were hastily scrawling the last handful of strange symbols around. Sōnar was perfectly at ease with whatever it was the priests were doing, but Shadow was more apprehensive and snarled a bit at one priest who got too close.

“Easy, boy!” Torrhen said, running his fingers through his friends black coat. “They’re trying to help us! Don’t go biting any of them!”

“T-That’s right, Shadow,” Lyaella added. “They’re faith is strange, but things’ll be fine. We’re all gonna be together with Mother, Father, and their dragons and direwolf in just a few more minutes. You’ll see!”

Shadow still seemed a bit on edge, but he at least stopped growling at the poor priest. Sōnar warbled happily, bumping Lyaella with her head happily as her wings fluttered in excitement.

“Sōnar, behave yourself!” Lyaella laughed. “You’ll hit one of the priests with your tail if you keep that up!”

“Yeah, calm down, girl,” Torrhen said, laughing himself as he stroked her scales. “I know you’re excited, but act that way and we’ll have to wait even longer if you mess up those odd symbols.”

Sōnar luckily heeded their advice and kept still, but her head continuously nudged the children’s shoulders as she dealt with her impatience. Her antics only made Lyaella laugh.

“We’ve finished drawing the symbols, Lady Kinvara,” said one of the priests suddenly. “We’re ready when you are.”

The high priestess nodded. “Good. Prince Torrhen, Princess Lyaella?

“I’m not a prince!”

“I’m not a p-princess…”

 _“Both of you,_ hold onto your companions and each other,” she ordered. “No matter what happens, _do not break contact with each other_ until the ritual is done.”

Torrhen and Lyaella nodded. Pausing only to pass their instruments to Sōnar and Shadow to hold onto them in their mouths for now, Torrhen promptly wrapped one arm around Shadow’s body while Lyaella did the same around Sōnar’s neck. Each having one arm free, they grasped each other’s hands tightly.

Lady Kinvara nodded in approval. She started towards the fire off to the side.

 _“Lord ōño,”_ she began, looking deeply into the flames. High Valyrian. _“Jehikagon aōha ōños—”_

She was interrupted by one of her priests suddenly dashing into the godswood. “High… High Priestess!” he cried, doubling over to hold his knees and appearing out of breath. “We must… We must hurry!”

“What is the matter?”

“The… The Raven King…” he panted. “He… He knows… He knows what we’re doing… He told the Wolf… the Wolf Queen… They summoned their guards! They intend to stop us!”

Genuine alarm spread instantaneously across Lady Kinvara’s face. “All of you,” she said promptly, turning to her fellow priests, “go and meet them half way. Stall for time. They must _not_ stop the Lord’s plan!”

The priests did as they were told. Dropping the torches, they took off running without a single word.

Lady Kinvara spun back around to face Torrhen and Lyaella. “As soon as I’m done reciting the spell, take your dragon and direwolf and run.”

Lyaella was confused. “But… this c-circle, the symbols—”

“They’re only necessary for singling out who the spell is intended to send back in time. Run into the forest once I’m done.”

“But our relatives… why would-”

 _“Āeksiot ōño,”_ Lady Kinvara began again, cutting off Torrhen. _“Lord ōño, jehikagon aōha ōños isse bisa era hen s_ _ȳ_ _ndror. Isse se tubissa bōsa past aōha perzyssy sia iā qēlītsos hen hope hae se s_ _ȳ_ _ndror derēptan. Jēda isse bisa vys ropatas naejot s_ _ȳ_ _ndror bōsa ago, se mērī aōha ōños kostagon maghagon nūmāzma se ñāqes. Se ñuhoso pōnta should emagon gō.”_

Torrhen and Lyaella didn’t know _any_ High Valyrian aside from three words, so they had no idea what Lady Kinvara was saying. But whatever it was, it certainly did the trick. The flames roared into an inferno at least six feat in the air, making embers fly everywhere. The children ducked as a handful nearly hit them, and they had to hold on tight to Sōnar and Shadow to keep them from either bolting away or flying off in alarm. Lyaella glanced over nervously at Torrhen. Aside from looking a bit shaken, he seemed more or less okay. That relieved her.

Lady Kinvara didn’t share their fear. Collecting one of the unlit torches, she lowered it into the flames.

_“Āeksio, guide these souls naejot arlī skori se s_ _ȳ_ _ndror ēlī spread r_ _ȳ_ _se tegun. Dohaeragon zir_ _ȳ_ _mazilībagon se vys paktot hae ao jeldan ziry naejot sagon. Dohaeragon zir_ _ȳ_ _arlinnon se fates hen aōha chosen champions sigligon. Dohaeragon zir_ _ȳ_ _, Āeksiot Ōño. Dohaeragon—”_

She was cut off by the sound of yelling and screaming a short ways off.

“Where are the children?!”

“Queen Sansa and King Bran demand you return them!”

“Step aside! _Now!”_

Lyaella trembled and squeezed her brother’s hand so tight his fingers turned white. Don’t let their uncle and aunt’s bannermen get past the priests in time. Let Lady Kinvara finish this ritual before they reached the godswood!

She listened, ears straining, as a horrified scream from a priest cut through the air. Followed by a second. Then a third. And then two more. The guards were killing them all just for standing in their way. They held no love for her or for Torrhen, but they were loyal to their monarchs. Killing those who had different ideals meant nothing to them, just like it meant nothing to the Stark’s.

Lyaella looked to Torrhen, hoping he was feeling more assured than she was right now. Her brother was always the brave one between them. He’d know just what to say to restore her confidence. But Torrhen had none of his usual confidence. He was staring white-faced and wide-eyed in the direction of all the screaming, so frozen he didn’t even notice her gazing at him.

“Tory… why’s this happening…?” she whispered.

Aside from a slight throat bob and lips parting wordlessly, Torrhen didn’t seem to hear her. He just kept staring off into the distance in shock and terror.

A flash of red in the corner of her eye caught Lyaella’s attention and she quickly turned. The two of them had been so afraid of the approaching guards they hadn’t even realized Lady Kinvara had continued to carry out the ritual from where she’d left off without either of them noticing. She was circling around them now, resuming whatever it was she was chanting while repeatedly lowering the torch onto each one of the symbols drawn into the snow, setting them ablaze. Within moments, the children and their direwolf brother and dragon sister were standing in the middle of a ring of fire.

_“Hen s_ _ȳ_ _ndror, ōños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghon, ābrar. Hen se past, se future. Ōños se ñuhoso!”_

The ring of flames crackled and hissed, then flared all at once into a single raging inferno that dwarfed the enormous flames in the bonfire.

Lyaella screamed in terror and buried her face into Sōnar’s neck, but Torrhen let out an involuntary shout of alarm. He had to mitigate between keeping hold of her hand and stop Shadow from howling and running directly into the fire to try escaping it. Sōnar was the only one out of the four of them unafraid of the flames. She was a dragon, and fire did nothing to her. Aside from crooning sweetly to comfort the frightened children, she basked in the warmth the fire provided. To a dragon, fire was comforting.

But not to two young children and a direwolf. The fire was scorching hot, and they all had to crowd together to avoid touching the dancing flames. Had they grown even an _inch_ bigger, the four of them definitely would have been singed.

Yet as quickly as the flames rose up, they died away again with a sudden gust of icy wind. The ring of fire was utterly extinguished, but the symbols on the ground were bright red, and pulsing like burning embers.

The twins were baffled, but they had no time to mull over what had just happened, as Lady Kinvara was already hurrying towards them with the torch.

“Go, now!” she ordered.

“Come with us!” Torrhen urged.

“W-We don’t want you to die!” Lyaella cried.

“I cannot. I must complete the last part of the spell in this rune circle. Good luck, my prince, my princess. May the Lord of Light watch over you both.”

“No, please—!”

“Y-You can’t-!”

They were cut off by the sound of crunching snow, followed swiftly by the shout of a familiar voice. “Torrhen! Lyaella! Where are you?!”

The twins didn’t dare linger. They just squeezed each other’s hands and kept firm grips on their dragon and direwolf before bolting away. They had no choice. Armed guards were one thing, but Lady Arya? Another matter entirely. As a former Faceless Man assassin, she’d catch them in a heartbeat.

They ran. And they ran. Neither of them had any idea where they were going, exactly. The only thing they knew was that they couldn’t stop or slow down. If they did, they’d lose the only chance they would ever have at finally meeting their parents.

But then Torrhen happened to glance over his shoulder to see if anyone was following them. He immediately skidded to a halt.

“Oh, crap! No!”

“What?!” Lyaella hissed, tugging harshly on his hand to keep him moving. “Why’d you stop?! We gotta keep going!”

“Because we’re leaving a trail, Lya! _Look!”_

Lyaella glanced back. To her horror, their footprints were embedded deeply into the snow on the ground, leaving a clear trail to anyone following them.

“What… What do we do, Tory?!”

Torrhen was silent for several seconds as he glanced around the snowy trees, unsure himself what could be done. Finally his eyes widened.

“See those trees, over there? They’re all clustered together, and they lead right into the thicker part of the godswood! Let’s run through them! Our tracks won’t be as easy to spot in there!”

“But Sōnar’s too big! She won’t fit!”

“Then… Then we’ll just hide in the thicker parts! Just for a few minutes until they pass! We’ll double back once they’re gone!”

Lyaella was a bit uneasy about it, but having no better ideas of her own and hearing running footsteps off in the distance quelled any protests. There was no time to argue about it. They had to get out of sight _now._

They approached the trees. “Go on, Sōnar,” she urged, glancing back over her shoulder to see if there was anyone around. “You first! Hurry!”

The white dragon warbled uneasily as she tried squeezed through the tight fit. It was obvious to the children that Sōnar didn’t like being forced to walk between the trees like this. She huffed and puffed, low growls escaping her throat as the bark from the trees scratched up against her. She was still carrying Lyaella’s lyre between her teeth just like how Shadow was carrying Torrhen’s lute, and as soon as she was fully through the narrow path, she dropped the musical instrument and promptly began knocking her head against one of the trees, attempting to destroy it.

“Sōnar! Sōnar, no!” Lyaella whispered, being forced to let go of Torrhen’s hand and sidle her own body through the trees to reach her. It was a good thing she did, too. Judging by the red glow emitting from the inner chambers of Sōnar’s mouth, she’d been on the verge of raining fire to express her anger. Pausing only to pick up her lyre, Lyaella softly stroked her neck in her favorite spot along her neck. “Easy, girl. We need to be quiet. We’ll get caught otherwise.” Luckily, the dragon calmed down, nuzzling her head the girl’s shoulder as she quietly crooned.

Lyaella breathed a deep breath of relief. That’d been way too close. A smile spreading across her face, she turned to look back over her shoulder. “Come on, Tory! Come on, Shadow!”

Shadow immediately trotted forward, but Torrhen didn’t move. He was staring straight ahead at her with wide eyes. Afraid that somehow Lady Arya or some of the approaching bannermen had somehow snuck up behind her, Lyaella fearfully whipped back around. But there was nothing there aside from more snowy trees and Sōnar. Aside from Sōnar, there was no one at all.

Feeling Shadow press against her legs, Lyaella gave him a quick pat on the head, but she was more focused on trying to wave Torrhen to follow.

“Torrhen! H-Hurry! They’ll be here any second!”

But still Torrhen frozen. He didn’t even blink.

Puzzlement overtook Lyaella for a moment, but then she realized what was happening and her stomach dropped. His fire… it was flickering again! _Now_ of all times!

“Torrhen… snap out of it!” she whispered anxiously. “Whatever’s happening, stop it! Please!”

It was no use. Her brother was no different from a statue, and he neither saw nor heard her.

Desperate to get her brother safely out of sight, Lyaella’s head snapped down to Shadow. “Shadow, help him! Please!”

Their direwolf was so smart. He didn’t bark, he didn’t stare at her in confusion. He didn’t hesitate. He simply leapt over the tangling roots of the snowy trees and dashed back to Torrhen. Still clutching Torrhen’s lute between his teeth, Shadow couldn’t drag him between the trees towards her and Sōnar. Instead, he got directly behind her brother and tried pushing him forward with his head.

But Torrhen was unmovable. Aside from a slight wobbling stumble, he refused to budge more than an inch or so forward. The sight of it made Lyaella so confused. Why did Torrhen’s fire flicker like this sometimes? And why _now?_ At the worst possible time?

“Torrhen, we have to go! Come on! If… If we aren’t all hanging on to each other soon, who knows what—”

The cawing of several birds interrupted her.

Blood draining from her face, Lyaella slowly looked up. There, nestled in a tree branch hanging directly overhead, were at least six black ravens. The first three staring directly at her and Sōnar, and the other three looking right at Torrhen and Shadow.

Lyaella yelped. King Bran… he knew where they were! She didn’t think twice. Finding a chunk of snow matted together, she threw it at the spying pests with all her might. Most of them flew away without a fuss, but two of them didn’t. Instead, they dove down right towards Lyaella, reaching out menacingly with their sharp talons.

She couldn’t stop herself from screaming in horror and pain as they clawed and pecked at her head and shoulders. She did her best to cover her face, but that only succeeded in making them scratch away at her arms and hands.

“Ow! Stop it! Please!” she cried. “K-King Bran! Stop!”

“Lya!” Torrhen’s voice. He had snapped out of it, whatever it was. “Lya, what’s wrong?!”

“K-King Bran… his ravens!”

“I’m coming! Hang on, I’ll be right— ow!”

Lyaella tried to look over towards him, but she couldn’t see a thing between her arms and the raging swarm of black feathers. “T-Tory?!”

“I-I’m fine, Lya! Just tripped! Me and Shadow will be right— ow!”

“Tory!”

“I’m coming, hang—”

“Torrhen! Lyaella!” Lady Arya. She still sounded like she was quite some ways off, thank heavens. “Where are you?!”

“L-Leave us alone!” Torrhen again. “We’re leaving!”

“Go away!” Lyaella screamed, batting away a bird that was trying to claw its way between the fingers covering her eyes. “W-We want to go! Sōnar, help!”

She heard a roar followed by the crackle of embers. She still didn’t dare open her eyes to see what was happening, but whatever Sōnar did, it made at least one of the ravens pecking at her disappear. Somewhere far off, Lady Arya called out again.

“Torrhen! Lyaella! Answer me! Where—”

She was cut off by a sudden burst of flames. Flames that Lyaella sensed did _not_ originate from her dragon sister standing next to her. Lyaella had no idea what was happening now since the ravens pecking and clawing only seemed to get more insistent, but Torrhen abruptly screamed. Lady Arya must’ve heard him, because her calling out to them only seemed to get more insistent.

_“Torrhen! What’s wrong?!”_

Enough was enough. Something had happened to her brother. She needed to know what. Quick as a flash, Lyaella dropped down, felt around in the snow blindly for another hardened snow clump, and whacked it hard against the attacking birds. She heard the ravens screeched in agony, but finally, they were gone. No more clawing and pecking. They had stopped attacking her. And Lyaella stopped shielding her face and looked around.

What she saw stunned her. Sōnar was batting off a handful of ravens that had apparently doubled back to attack her too, but aside from that, her dragon was surrounded by a ring of fire. Fire that followed her around with every step she took, yet burned nothing on the ground. She was mystified, but then she realized a similar flame ring was circling her. Was this part of Lady Kinvara’s spell? Was the magic to send them all back in time finally taking effect?

Pausing only to scoop up her discarded lyre on the ground, Lyaella lunged forward, grasping onto Sōnar with all her might. Her theory on whether this was indeed part of the spell were confirmed when the two separate rings of fire merged into one. Lyaella was relieved. She and Sōnar were together now. They just needed to get a hold on her brother and their direwolf and everything would be fine.

But it wasn’t that easy. Torrhen was still back on the main path with Shadow, grasping onto the black direwolf’s thick fur with all his might as one gigantic fire ring surrounded them both. But Torrhen was only holding onto Shadow to use him as a support to stand. He was on the ground for some reason, and he looked to be in a great deal of pain. Despite Torrhen’s lute being between his teeth and being anxious about the fire surrounding him, Shadow was nonetheless loyal to his boy, and didn’t dare try to break away from Torrhen’s grasp as he tried to rise.

“Tory!” Lyaella screamed, whacking away one of the offending ravens that was trying to claw at her and Sōnar. “Tory, what’s wrong?!”

“I hurt my ankle!” he yelled back. “Wait there! We’re coming!”

“Stop talking nonsense! You can’t walk! Me and Sōnar will—”

The flames rings between the two separated twins and their pets suddenly began to revolve around them both. Slowly at first, in counter-clockwise rotations. Then faster and faster.

Lyaella gasped. No! Not yet! She and Torrhen weren’t together! The magic had to wait just one more second! Wrapping her arm tightly around Sōnar’s neck, Lyaella half dragged the white dragon behind her as she struggled to squeeze back between the trees to Torrhen as fast as she could. All the while, the spinning flames continued whirring without reprieve.

Dodging Lady Arya entirely when she tried to block her off, Lyaella stretched out her free hand to Torrhen. He did the same.

“Tory!”

“Lya!”

Their hands were separated by only a few short inches. They were gonna make it! They just had to—

The flames combusted impossibly high around Lyaella and Sōnar. And the world went white.


	4. The Dragon of Castle Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone!
> 
> I went to great lengths to make sure I finished this chapter yesterday so I could post it today on December 24th! Consider this chapter my Christmas present to all of you, my loyal readers! Some of you might not celebrate Christmas, but I do! It's my all time favorite holiday, and I wanted to share my Christmas spirit with all of you by posting first thing today! I hope all you loyal readers enjoy this chapter and are grateful for Christmas coming early! :D
> 
> One thing I'd like to note before moving onto the story, I have exciting news! I'll be starting an internship fairly soon for screenwriting! I was astounded when I found out that I got it! Wish me luck! This could help open a lot of doors for me in the screenwriting field! I also might be doing a bit of freelance animation for a client I did a bit of work for over the summer! They said they might have some work for me once the holidays are over, so I'm staying hopeful! Keep your fingers crossed for me! I not only could use the money now that I'm out of a job, I could use the work experience!
> 
> Now, onto the story itself! I'm thrilled you all enjoyed Chapter 3 so much! Everyone's been so excited to see which kid will end up with which parent, and here we finally see part 1 of the twins arrival in the past! FYI, this chapter will be the last back-to-back chapter in Lyaella's POV for awhile. We'll be switching to Torrhen's POV come next chapter and will be staying with him until possibly the middle of Chapter 6. Rest assured, I haven't forgotten about writing things in his POV! I just... well, I'd like to remind all of you that chapters 2 and 3 were originally supposed to be one long chapter mashed together. The first half of the chapter was supposed to be in Torrhen's POV, and the second half in Lyaella's. However, the chapter turned out way too long, hence why it got split up and why it seems like favoritism towards Lyaella. I won't deny that I personally connect with Lyaella, but I'm NOT playing favorites in terms of POV's! This was an accident due to chapter lengths between chapters 2 and 3! From here on out, there may occasionally be times we'll see chapters in back-to-back POV's of one of the twins, but when that happens, it happens for a reason, NOT because I'm playing favorites!
> 
> A few more things I'd like to note for everyone who keeps asking in the reviews:
> 
> 1.) I will NOT be explaining when/how Jon died in the original timeline the twins came from yet, so I respectfully request that you stop asking.
> 
> This is a plot hook that is keeping all of you interested and I already know WHEN in the story it will be revealed. It's gonna stay a mystery for you readers for a LONG time, so just keep reading! You'll find out eventually! ;D
> 
> 2.) I will NOT be explaining when/where the twins were born yet, so again, I respectfully request that you stop asking.
> 
> I've already stated in the story itself that the War for the Dawn took nearly a year to win in the original timeline that the twins came from. More details about their births with gradually be revealed by the twins in chunks as the story progresses, but the circumstances of their births... let's just say that this bit of backstory for the twins is an important detail for various reasons I cannot and will not discuss to avoid spoilers. Not even Dakkaman or Longclaw know what was going on in the world during the exact moment the twins were born, and I'm actually grateful that neither of them ever asked about it. No offense, Dakkaman, Longclaw! I'm just adamant to keep particular details of the twins' backstories a secret from even you guys, that way both of you will also be surprised by certain things that happen in the story, lol!
> 
> In other news, the current total in stats for this story is 48 reviews, 100 kudos, 26 bookmarks, and 2351 views! I'm delighted by how well the story's doing overall, but the one thing I'm admittedly disappointed about is that we were only two reviews short of my hopeful comment count goal of 50 from last chapter... Oh, well. Perhaps we can try again with another comment goal? Let's try to get a grand total of... 70 comments this time. That's only twenty-two comments all together! I don't think that'll be too hard to do this time! If everyone who commented on the last chapter comments again and a handful of people who didn't comment before does so now, we can make this goal! Come on, everyone! You can do it! Just type a quick note when you're done reading regarding your thoughts on the chapter! It shouldn't take more than five minutes unless you have a lot to say, lol!
> 
> Well, that's everything for now! I hope you enjoy the chapter! And like I said, be sure to comment when you're done!
> 
> Happy Reading and Have a Very Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays!
> 
> \- Elphaba818

Jon was numb as he trudged out of the tunnel and out into the open snow beyond the Wall. It was a good thing Thorne was still out of commission due to his injuries during the battle the night before, because if he had been up and about, there was no way he’d be able to go through with this risky plan. It was a stupid plan, like Sam had told him, but what else could any of them do? Mance Raydar was the King Beyond the Wall, a former man of the Night’s Watch. He was the one who gathered all the Free Folk together, taught them how the soldiers and men in the Seven Kingdoms fought together in coordinated attacks rather than attacking randomly and with no organization.

Killing Mance was the only thing that could ensure the Night’s Watch would survive.

Jon was silent as he shuffled forward across the long stretch of bloodstained snow to the snowy trees of the Haunted Forest. He didn’t want to do this, but what choice did he have? There was nothing he had anymore that made life worth living. He had never had a mother. His father was dead, beheaded by the Lannister’s on false charges of treason. His brother Robb was dead, betrayed by the weasel Walder Frey and the Northern backstabber Roose Bolton at the Red Wedding, corpse mutilated by sewing Grey Wind’s head on top of it in place of his own. His sister Sansa had vanished after Joffery Waters had been poisoned at his own wedding. His little sister, Arya — his favorite sibling — also missing since the day his father was arrested, though she was most likely rotting in some Flea Bottom gutter somewhere. And Bran and Rickon, the former crippled and latter his youngest baby brother… presumed dead by the rest of the world after that shit Theon Greyjoy betrayed their family, but Sam told him he’d seen Bran go beyond the Wall sometime last year with Hodor and the children of Howland Reed of all people. No sign at all of Rickon, but if Bran had escaped the burning of Winterfell, it was possible he had too. Yet that didn’t change the fact that his youngest brother was still in the wind. If any of his siblings were still alive, they were long gone. The only family he had were his fellow brothers of the Nights Watch.

And now that Ygritte was gone too… what was the point of living anyway? The Army of the Dead would march on the Wall eventually. The Night’s Watch was but a ghost of its former self, especially after Lord Commander Mormont’s failed Great Ranging Expedition and now after last night attack. Jon knew Ygritte would never have forgiven him for betraying her and the Free Folk to warn the Night’s Watch about Mance’s plans, but still… she was the only woman he’d ever loved.

But he was a man of the Night’s Watch. He was to man the Wall ‘til his dying breath. He would take no wife, father no children. His duty was the only thing that mattered.

Killing Mance now would undoubtedly seal his death warrant with the Free Folk, but that was fine. Jon had nothing anymore. No family, no home, no one who loved or truly needed him. So long as he could do his duty one last time, what did his own death matter?

Approaching the tree-line, Jon kept his hands held high over his head as various Free Folk warriors pointed the sharp tips of their spears at him. Maintaining a facade of harmlessness and that he meant no harm was the only way he could go through with this reckless plot.

None of the Free Folk warriors said anything to him, though one vanished inside the largest of all the small tents that had been set up between the trees. A few moments later, the massive former of Mance Rayder emerged. Like the rest of his army, Mance said nothing to him at first. Just gave him a long look from head to toe.

“Yeh’re all in black again,” he said at last. “Thought yeh were on our side.”

“I’ve been sent to negotiate with you.”

Mance let out a humorless breath of laughter at that, but he nonetheless nodded. Turning to two middle-aged warriors, he jerked his head in Jon’s direction. Wordlessly, they walked up to him and searched him for hidden weapons. Thank goodness he had left Longclaw behind with Sam. Had he had it now, he’d would’ve never seen Jeor Mormont’s legacy to him again. And besides, he might be stupid, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to sneak a weapon with him right now. The Free Folk were already on edge around him after he betrayed them. Trying to slip a knife past them would only guarantee he’d end up in some Thenn’s cooking pot by nightfall. Killing Mance would require quite a bit of improvisation on his end.

Appeased, Mance motioned them to lead Jon inside his tent. Thankfully, no one made any attempt to physically restrain Jon or bind him with ropes. So far, everything was looking moderately okay.

Taking a look around as Mance motioned him to sit in one of the only two stools available, Jon saw that there was a typical fire pit in the middle of the tent and a Free Folk spearwife was spinning a rabbit over the flames on a spit. There was a log table just a short ways off to her right, and the carving knife she’d used to skin it was embedded into the surface. That would be his play. If he could just get Mance to lower his guard long enough to snatch that knife, he’d slit his throat before he, his bodyguards, or the spearwife cook could do anything to stop him.

Jon averted his eyes from it though as Mance settled into the seat opposite him. “Seems I was wrong to trust yeh, Jon Snow. Won’t be the first time that’s happened,” he said. “I’d hoped yeh were loyal when yeh joined us, Jon Snow. I really was.”

It took all of Jon’s willpower not to sigh. “The Halfhand ordered me to join your army, bring back any information on your people I could back to Castle Black. He forced me to kill him. It was the only way you’d trust me. So I _was_ loyal. To my Night’s Watch vows.”

 _“All_ yer vows?”

Jon wanted to stay strong, but he couldn’t help it. Not when the heartbreak of Ygritte’s death was still so fresh. He looked away.

“She couldn’t turn yeh. She wasn’t enough,” Mance mused. “Were yeh enough to turn her?”

“She shot three arrows in me when I escaped. One missed my heart by six inches.”

Mance’s lips quirked up. “Yeh see her again at Castle Black?”

“Aye.”

“And?”

His throat tightened. “She’s dead.”

Mance’s partial amusement faded away. “Yeh’re fault?” he asked.

“No,” said Jon. Nothing relieved Jon more than that. Had he been the one who had killed Ygritte… he couldn’t even imagine the idea. Killing the woman he loved just because the rest of the world saw her as a monster? That was something he wouldn’t wish even on his worst enemy.

Mance was quiet for several moments. “We’ll drink to her,” he said. Nodding to one of his guards, the warrior collected two mugs and a jug of some sort. Putting the glasses down in front of Jon and Mance, he poured them both the drink. Jon had no idea what it was. It looked white, but what kind of alcohol was as white as milk? Was Mance playing the same game as him? Was he trying to get him to lower _his_ guard?

His eyes flicked up to Mance. This time, the former Night’s Watchman seemed to guess his thoughts. “There’s a thousand ways I’d kill yeh, Jon Snow. Poison would be the last.”

Tension fading, Jon picked up the mug. They both raised them up high.

“Ygritte.”

“Ygritte.”

They drank. Within seconds, Jon was spluttering. “That’s not wine!”

“No, it’s a proper Northern drink, Jon Snow,” Mance said. “I’ll admit, I’m impressed. Yeh did well. The Night’s Watch fought hard. Killed some of our best men. One of our giants managed to get into your tunnel, but never came out.”

That brought another sigh to Jon’s lips. “He’s dead, too. He killed a friend of mine. Grenn.”

Mance genuinely frowned. “Mag the Mighty. He was the giants king,” he explained. “Last of a bloodline stretching back before the First Men.”

“Grenn came from a farm.”

Mance nodded, then lifted his mug for a second toast. “Mag and Grenn.”

“Grenn and Mag,” Jon agreed, doing the same. They both took another swig. Jon managed to swallow it this time without spitting it out.

“Kullback,” said Mance, glancing back over his shoulder. “Think yeh could get us something to eat? Don’t think our guest’s eaten anything in quite some time.” The Free Folk warrior nodded and approached the spearwife still tending the rabbit on the spit. As he carved off a few chunks of meat, Mance turned back to Jon. “So, yeh say yeh’re here to negotiate?”

It took all of Jon’s willpower to maintain a neutral expression as he nodded. “Go home,” he told him. “Turn your army around and go home. Promise to stop attacking the Wall.”

“We both know yeh’re low on arrows. Yeh’re low on oil. Yeh’re eying that rabbit over there like a starvin’ hound. Yeh’re low on food. After last night, yeh’re low on men. How many are left? A hundred? Fifty?”

“I told Tormund and Orell our numbers. We still have more than a thousand men.”

“And I showed yeh my army. A hundred thousand strong, all willin’ to fight or die getting beyond yer Wall. And what did the Night’s Watch do? Yeh fired on us with everythin’ yeh had. It wasn’t much. Know what I did when I saw that?”

“What?”

“I sent four hundred men to climb the Wall. An unmanned stretch a few miles west of here. A lot will die climbin’, but many of them will be up and over by nightfall. That’s me being honest, Jon Snow. That’s more than yeh’ve ever been.”

That left a bad taste in Jon’s mouth. He had never intended to become a spy when he asked Lord Commander Mormont if he could with the Halfhand during the Great Ranging. He had only wanted… what had he wanted back then, anyway? He’d been a stupid green boy who had no idea what the reality of killing and warfare entailed. He had looked up to his father all his life, admired him for his honor and honesty. Ned Stark would be ashamed of him though if he were still alive. Between learning to respect the Free Folk to betraying them with lies. And now, for eying that knife over on the table.

What choice did he have though? It was either kill Mance, or let the Free Folk kill everyone in Castle Black.

“My people have bled enough,” he went on. “We’re not here to conquer, we’re not here to hurt innocents.”

“Tell that to all the farmers and the people in Mole’s Town. They were innocent. Now they’re dead.”

That made Mance pause. “That will stop. Immediately,” he promised. “We’re here to hide behind yer Wall. Just like you. Just like everyone else in the Seven Kingdoms, but we need yer tunnel. We both know Winter is coming. If my people aren’t south of the Wall when it comes, we’ll all be worse than dead. Yeh wanna strike a bargain with me? Here’s the bargain: Yeh go back, yeh open the gates to us. I swear, no one else will die.”

Jon knew he had a point. He might not have been at the Fist of the First Men when the dead attacked, but he’d seen them himself. But what could he do? He wasn’t Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, so he couldn’t even agree to these terms even if he wanted to. And considering Thorne never gave him clearance for this supposed negotiation, he couldn’t even take Mance’s offer back to the Night’s Watch to get everyone else there to consider the possibility. Whatever sympathy he felt for Mance and the Free Folk… he had to quell it now. There was nothing he could do for them.

No, he had to grab that cooking knife now and—

“Ah, so _that_ _’s_ why yeh’re here.”

Jon froze. He hadn’t even realized his eyes had fallen back on the knife on the table. Shit.

There was a rush of movement out of the corner of his eye. The Free Folk rushed to unsheathe their knives and point their spears at him, but Mance waved away their caution. He didn’t even really look at any of them as he did so. He kept his eyes fixed on Jon, critically appraising him.

“I reckon yeh could do it before any of them could stop yeh. They’ll kill yeh, of course. They’d kill yeh slow… but yeh knew that when yeh came in here.”

Jon said nothing. Mance was right. He _had_ known that when he came in here. Death was something he had already accepted. That was not new knowledge to him. He didn’t need to be reminded.

The King Beyond the Wall recognized that, and furrowed his brows. “Are yeh capable of that, Jon Snow?” he asked. “Killing a man in his own tent when he’s just offered yeh peace? May not be the peace everyone wants, but still peace. Killing the man who trusted yeh? Is that how far the Night’s Watch has fallen? Is that how far _you_ _’ve_ fallen?”

His mouth was dry. His stomach was in knots. He didn’t even know what the right answer was to those questions. He hadn’t thought of it that way. Still… didn’t Mance have a point? Two seconds ago, he had been an entirely certain his father would have supported this decision. But now? What was he supposed to do?

He didn’t get any more time to muse over this though, because all the sudden, a loud war horn was suddenly blaring from right outside the tent. A Free Folk war horn.

“Riders coming!” a man yelled.

That was all Mance needed to hear. Quick as a flash, the older man was on his feet and had the knife Jon had been eying a few moments ago right at his throat.

“What’s happening?! Yeh attacking us?!”

“N-No. It’s like you said,” Jon rasped, eyes darting wildly between Mance and the tent flap. “We… We don’t have the men.”

Something in his expression must’ve convinced Mance he was being honest this time, and he slowly lowered the blade from his throat. Instead of anger, the older man’s face matched Jon’s own confusion. Nodding to two of his guards, he motioned them to haul Jon up and follow him outside. Despite how roughly the Free Folk warriors handled him, Jon couldn’t find it in himself to mind all that much. Like Mance, he too wanted to know what was happening out there.

Mance shoved aside the tent flap and they all stumbled out. What they saw was nothing short of a nightmare for Mance, but the greatest hope imaginable for Jon and the Night’s Watch.

Great legions of mounted cavalry knights were riding hard and fast from someplace far off from the east. And not just one or two. Thousands. No, _tens of thousands!_ All of them were yelling war cries as they rode swiftly alongside the Wall, the hoofbeats of their horses drumming like thunder in the early morning air. Before long, they all sharply turned to ride full tilt towards the Free Folk’s war camp.

Mance was stunned and turned to Jon questioningly, but Jon didn’t even look at him, he was so shocked. He could only stare at the mysterious army with wide eyes and his mouth agape. He was grateful for the timely attack. He would’ve probably died for certain ten seconds ago had this intervention not happened when it did, but who did this army belong to? Who had finally answered the call for help that the Night’s Watch had been pleading for across the realm for so many years now? They carried flags, but they were all flapping in the wind so much that he couldn’t make out the sigil.

The mysterious army soon reached the edge of the Haunted Forest, and seconds later, the familiar cry of steel clashing and men hollering before they died rang through the air.

 _“Hold!”_ Mance suddenly yelled. “To me! To me!”

Some of his men listened, but the Free Folk were nicknamed Wildlings for a reason. They chose to follow Mance because they respected his leadership, but in life or death situations like this, they followed their own instincts. Warriors and spearwives whooped loud war cries as they did their best to fight back, but before long, a second platoon of thousands of mounted knights was approaching the war camp, this time from the opposite side of the dense woods. Jon was admittedly impressed. Whoever was in charge of this army, they knew their battle tactics. They had successfully cut off the Free Folk from retreating, forcing them to fight to the death or surrender. Smart.

The Free Folk knew this too, because those who had opted to fight were mercilessly cut down by the second wave. Warriors were beheaded. Archers were disemboweled. Spearwives were skewered straight through. And like Jon predicted, those who tried to run met the same fate. It wasn’t even a battle what with how easily the Westerosi defeated them. It was a full out slaughter.

It lasted for almost a solid minute, but finally Mance accepted the reality. “Stand down!” he yelled, throwing down the knife. Jon glanced at him, surprised. He was the King Beyond the Wall. Wasn’t he supposed to be the last one to accept defeat, to be the one rallying everyone to fight to the last man? Mance noticed his stare and sighed. “I said my people have bled enough. And I meant it.”

Jon nodded in respect. Mance Rayder might have deserted the Night’s Watch, but he was ten times the man and leader than Thorne could ever be. If there was one more reason Jon could admit to himself that he missed about living North of Wall with the Free Folk, it was being under Mance’s command. He was sure that if his father could have looked past Mance breaking his vows to the Watch, he would’ve liked him, too.

As the fighting gradually dwindled down, the sound of horses galloping through the snow echoed through the woods. Jon couldn’t tell where they were coming from at first. There was so much smoke and snow flurries fluttering through the air in the aftermath of the battle that it was impossible to make out anything more than the basic shapes of anything not in his nearby vicinity. But soon enough, two riders in heavy armor emerged from the trees. One was older than the other, with graying hair on a balding head and a thick beard, but the other was definitely middle-aged, with a stern face and a rather serious demeanor. Unlike the rest of the soldiers, neither of them wore helmets, but they still appeared to command respect. One of them was clearly the one in charge, because the soldiers nearby immediately stopped rounding up the surviving Free Folk men and women and instead stood at attention as they dismounted and approached.

One Free Folk warrior clearly wasn’t ready to surrender to these men, because he raised his battle axe and charged toward the two with a furious yell. Neither of them blinked as he lunged forward, nor when another knight on horseback casually galloped forward, slicing his head off with relative ease.

Wordlessly, Mance unsheathed the two extra longknives he had strapped to his waist. He tossed them to the ground without even looking at them, his full attention still on those approaching the group. When they finally stopped in front of them, the middle-aged armored man stopped a few steps closer to them than the older man did and stared at Mance solemnly. He was the leader, then.

“You’re the King Beyond the Wall?” he asked gruffly, after a slight pause. The corners of Mance’s lips curled up a bit, and he nodded once, curtly. “Do you know who I am?”

“Never had the pleasure.”

“This is King Stannis, of House Baratheon,” said the older man. “The one true king of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon stood slightly straighter at that. Stannis Baratheon? The one his father died for to make sure he knew of his rightful place as the late King Robert’s heir?

“We’re not in the Seven Kingdoms,” Mance pointed out, speaking a little louder as the wind kicked up, “and yeh’re not dressed for this weather.”

Stannis gave Mance a hard look. Jon was a little worried how he might react to that for a moment, but thankfully, Stannis let it slide.

“Kneeling is customary when surrendering to another king.”

Now it was Mance with the stern expression. He stared at Stannis for the longest time as the wind got a bit louder, gaze unwavering. No one dared to speak a word as the leader of the Free Folk silently deliberated, especially not Jon. Finally, he let out a humorless snort and shook his head.

“We’re the Free Folk. We do not kneel.”

“I’ll have thousands—” Stannis was cut off momentarily as the wind unexpectedly whistled. He pressed his lips together in annoyance and waited for it to die down a bit before speaking again. “I’ll have thousands of your people in chains by nightfall. Nowhere to put them, nowhere to—” another sharp whistle, this one even louder than the first “—nowhere to feed them, nowhere to properly house them. I did not come here to butcher beat dogs. Their fate depends on their king.”

“All the same, we do not kneel.”

“So be it. Take these men away and— curse this wind!”

The wind was roaring now, almost blocking out all other sounds entirely and blowing snow everywhere. Despite how his Night’s Watch cloak was flapping wildly from the strange gust, Jon stood firm and steady to keep himself from being blown away a few paces. He could handle the wind, he could even handle the snow being swept onto him wind the air currents. He was a Northerner, through and through. An icy gale like this meant nothing to him, but the roar of the wind itself was what annoyed him. He’d never heard the wind become this loud from anywhere aside from on top of the Wall. If he didn’t know any better, he could have sworn it was even _louder._

Mance chuckled as several of Stannis’ men dropped their swords to slam their hands over their ears or grab hold of each other or tree trunks to keep from being blown away. He wasn’t the only one, either. Many Free Folk did. But they swiftly stopped as the ground began to tremor. It was so unnoticeable at first that Jon didn’t pay attention to it compared to the wind, but he was knocked off his feet entirely when a sharp jolt rocked the earth. Horses bucked their riders and whinnied in terror as the trees swayed from the force of the ground shaking, snow tumbling off their branches in large clumps. Everyone was panicking, no longer caring who was Free Folk or part of Stannis’s army as they tried to find some sort of cover.

Earthquake. A massive one, too.

Jon didn’t know what to make of the sudden change in events, but his survival instincts were already kicking in. Rolling out of the way of a falling tree branch, he crawled as quickly as he could towards a cluster of boulders a short ways off. It wasn’t much, but at least he could huddle under them and stay alive in case one of the trees toppled over. If the Wall itself came crumbling down though because of this… he couldn’t even imagine it. They were dead already if that happened.

Stannis and the older man with him seemed to have the same idea when it came to finding shelter. They were both crouching behind the rocks already and yelling at everyone else to find cover, too.

The older man gave him a rather fearful smile as he scooted aside, giving him room. “Didn’t expect to find a man of the Night’s Watch in a Wildling camp,” he murmured, keeping one eye on Jon and the other at the unexpected catastrophe happening all around them.

“I came to talk terms with—” Jon cut himself off, pressing himself as far up against the rocks as he could as one of the horses fell over in front of him, missing his legs by only inches. “—with the King Beyond the Wall.” He’d lost sight of Mance in all the chaos. Even though they were enemies now, he hoped the man was okay.

“This is the one true king, boy. You will address him as, ‘your grace.’”

Jon was prepared to assure both Stannis and his apparent adviser that he meant no disrespect, but all thoughts vanished from his mind when a blinding flash of white light appeared out of nowhere. Many men cried out in alarm, but Jon squeezed his eyes shut and threw up his hands. What was happening now? He wanted to know very badly, but he resisted the temptation and kept them closed. He could tell from behind the safe darkness of his closed eyelids that whatever this light source was had yet to let up. The last thing he needed was for his vision to get all spotty in case some of the more temperamental Free Folk warriors decided when this was all over to use this strange disaster to their advantage and attack him and Stannis’ men.

But as quickly as the strange light and the earthquake started up, they stopped rather abruptly, and the wind gradually died down to a tolerable breeze. There was a brief stretch of silence, and then he heard people slowly coming to their senses and checking each other over. Jon couldn’t help but feel slightly worried though, and hesitantly opened his eyes. Everything seemed to be in order though. Aside from a handful of Stannis’ horses being killed by a fallen tree, no one appeared to be hurt. Mance and several other Free Folk warriors had run into the main war tent for shelter, but they too were venturing out and showed no signs of injuries. Jon was relieved as he slowly rose up. He’d had more than his fair share of death due to war to last a lifetime. But death from a natural disaster? That could almost be considered far worse, as there was no way to know when and where such a tragedy would occur. Aside from a handful of Baratheon soldiers and Free Folk warriors shouting at each other in stupid attempts to blame the enemy army for whatever caused the mysterious earthquake to just happen, nothing seemed to be amiss now.

“Ser Davos,” said Stannis, he too standing up and brushing away the snow that was clinging to his armor. “Find the other officers in charge. Tell them that what just happened changes nothing and to still—”

He was cut off by a scream suddenly piercing the air.

A child’s scream.

* * *

It was cold. Bitter cold. Playing outside in the snow back in Winterfell after sundown in the middle of Winter couldn’t compare to how cold she was now.

Lyaella slowly opened her eyes. She was lying face down in a thick clump of freezing snow, her lyre clutched tightly in one of her fists. How did she end up on the ground anyway? Only seconds ago she’d been running to Torrhen and Shadow with Sōnar at her side before Lady Kinvara’s spell could take effect. But then the fire circles started spinning around her and Sōnar while other fire circles did the same around Torrhen and Shadow. There was that flash of white light and then… nothing. What happened?

Groaning lightly, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, checked over her lyre for half a second to see if was damaged — it wasn’t, thanks goodness! — and looked around. She was outside. She knew she had to be since she was lying in snow, but she was not in the Winterfell godswood anymore. She could just barely make out the red leaves of _a_ weirwood tree poking out above the branches of other snowy trees some ways off, but the weirwood was in completely the wrong place to be the same one back in Winterfell. And these other trees… they were unfamiliar to her. They were snowy pine trees, not frozen maple trees. She seemed be sitting behind some snow-covered bushes rather than in the middle of the godswood path where she’d been a moment ago, running to Torrhen.

Torrhen… where _was_ he? And where was Sōnar and Shadow?

“T-Tory…?” she whispered, her voice trembling even more than usual between the extreme cold and her sudden anxiety. “Shadow…? S-Sōnar…?”

There was no answer. Not from her brother, nor from their direwolf brother and dragon sister.

Lyaella swallowed thickly. Her arms, hands, and face were still a scratched up mess thanks to King Bran’s ravens, but not even the fear of his birds attacking her could compare to the anxiety that was gripping her heart now. Torrhen, her twin… Where was her brother?! Where was his direwolf?! Where was her dragon?!

“Torrhen? Torrhen, w-where are—”

“What the fuck was that?! You Wildlings know magic or something?!”

“We’re the ones who should be askin’ yeh that, yeh Southern twats!”

Lyaella froze. People were yelling just on the other side of the bushes. And judging by the sound of it, they didn’t sound all that friendly.

“The one true king might dabble in blood magic, but he had _nothing_ to do with whatever that shit was! That had to be a sneak attack from you fucking raiders!”

“If we knew how to do stuff like _that,_ Mance would’ve had us over yer fuckin’ Wall last night! Damn Crows would be dead already!”

The little girl clutched the rim of her lyre so tightly as she started trembling, her fist turned white. She was beyond terrified. She had no idea who these unknown voices belonged to or what they were talking about, but knowing that they were just on the opposite side of the bushes shielding her from view changed everything. Figuring out where Torrhen, Shadow, and Sōnar were could wait. Right now, she had to get as far away as possible from whoever was on the opposite side of these bushes. For all she knew, they could be sworn enemies to either House Stark or House Targaryen, or just plain murderers in any regard. Swallowing a whimper, she stayed low to the ground and slowly crawled towards a nearby tree. It was less than three feet away from her bushes. She just needed to quietly slip behind it until these people left and then she could—

“Oh! You think your fucking Wildling king can protect you?! Fine! Let’s see him protect you from _this!_ _”_

The whistle of a blade sang through the air. Seconds later, the lifeless body of a large man with a tangled beard and dressed in thick furs fell into the bushes, blood gushing out from the deep slash across its throat.

Lyaella couldn’t stop herself. She _screamed._

Big mistake on her part, because seconds later the snow-covered leaves of the bushes were shoved aside, revealing a baffled middle-aged man in Southern-style armor. He wasn’t the only one, either. Other men in armor hurried up behind him curiously, only for their faces to become equally shocked when they saw her.

“Seven hells…!” exclaimed the first man, bulging eyes fixated on her silver hair. “You’re… You’re a—!”

A second scream and a crunch of snow, and the unknown soldier yelped as he toppled backwards into the other knights due to a snowball in the face, and Lyaella sprung to her feet and took off running deeper into the snowy woods. The other soldiers were admittedly distracted by their comrade almost falling on them, but they all cried out in alarm when they saw her run off and sprinted after her.

“No — kid — _stop!_ _”_

Stop? They wanted her to _stop?_ She wasn’t stupid. These men were killers, whoever they were. They already killed that man back there just because they didn’t like him. They would probably kill her, too!

Lyaella’s heart pounded in her chest as she flew between the trees. She had no idea where she was exactly, let alone _when_ it was in terms of history. There were only three thoughts of genuine consequence running through her mind: get away from these people, find her brother and their pets, and don’t drop her lyre. Wherever she’d landed in time, she was obviously somewhere where a major battle must’ve literally just taken place. There were armored horses and knights everywhere, and so many dead people in thick fur clothing strewn across the frozen ground. Were they Wildlings? They looked like Wildlings… Didn’t matter, most of them were dead, but those that were still alive simply gaped at her in confusion as she bolted away from them. But the other soldiers? They dropped whatever they’d doing when they saw her and joined the original group of men in chasing her.

Who were these people? Northerners? Southerners? They obviously recognized she was of Targaryen descent with her silver hair. Were they against House Targaryen? If so, they’d kill her for sure. She needed to get out of here! And more than anything, she needed to find her brother and their companions.

“Torrhen!” she shouted, trudging as fast as she could between a tight cluster of trees. Tree clusters were good. They wouldn’t be able to surround her between them. “Torrhen, where are you?! Shadow!”

“Kid, slow down—!”

Crunching snow, running feet. “What’s happening here?!”

“Your grace! That child —— _look!_ _”_

Sharp gasp. “She’s…? Stop her! _Now!_ _”_

Lyaella whimpered, pine needles scratching her face and arms as she slapped aside a low hanging branch. No… No, no, no! Not a king claimant! She was dead for sure now unless she found her twin and their pets. It didn’t matter if her last name was technically ‘Snow.’ This king would undoubtedly kill her in order to protect his claim.

“Tory! Tory, come on! Answer me!”

She wanted to keep sidling her way in between trees, but she skidded to a halt when the faces of two of the men bundled up in thick furs appeared between the gaps of tree branches just ahead. Seeing her, they did their best to quickly squeeze their way through the tree trunks in order to reach her. No, weren’t those people Wildlings? Why where they siding with this unknown enemy army to capture her? Was nowhere safe for her now? She spun around frantically, looking everywhere for a possible escape route without anyone around to stop her. Her eyes soon fell upon the trees off to the right. It didn’t look like anyone was in the immediate vicinity over there. That way was her best bet.

Her breath came out in fast pants as she dodged around boulders and trees. She felt slightly breathless, but her chest wasn’t tight. Were her lungs acting up again? If they were, then they needed to get better on their own. She had to ignore her minor breathlessness and keep going. Once she found her Torrhen, Shadow, and Sōnar she could afford to stop and rest. Right now, the only thing that mattered was getting away.

She just barely cleared the trees and entered a small wooded clearing when there was an abrupt flash of silver out of the corner of her eyes. Before Lyaella could blink, she found herself being tackled to the ground and physically restrained by one of the armored soldiers. He’d leapt out of hiding from behind a tree at the edge of the clearing, clearly waiting to catch her off guard. She shrieked and thrashed wildly, her lyre flying out of her hands as he struggled to maneuver them back to their feet again, all the while keeping a firm grasp on her upper arms.

“Let me go! Let me go! T-Torrhen, help!”

“Hey! K-Kid, stop —— Your grace! I-I-I caught the girl! —— Ow!”

There was the sound of approaching footsteps running towards them. More than Lyaella could guesstimate, but she didn’t care how many there were anyway. Escaping from them was the top priority, and she kept writhing and jerking as hard as she could in the soldier’s arms, desperate to break free.

“Torrhen…! Torrhen, w-where are you?! Help… Help me!”

They seemed to arrive all at once, flooding out of the trees like a great swarm of angry wasps. Wildlings and the soldiers. The Wildlings were still staring at her in obvious confusion, but the unknown army gawked at her in utter disbelief. All their staring made her panic further, and her fast panting came out as desperate rasps for air. Who was their leader? Where was their supposed-king? And where was her brother, their direwolf, and their dragon? Had all three of them already been captured by these people? Was that why none of them were coming to save her?

From out of the crowd came a handful of men. The first two men obviously seemed to be in charge, as they both wore the same type of armor as the rest of the men in plate mail. They were both equally shocked by the very sight of Lyaella, but one also looked vaguely familiar to her despite being significantly older than the other and having balding white hair. Why he looked familiar was beyond her comprehension at this time, she was in such a frenzy, and her eyes slid from them to the next man — a middle-aged Wildling being manhandled by numerous soldiers. Definitely a prisoner, but unlike the rest of the Wildlings, this one seemed to understand what her silver hair signified. He stared at her with just as much shock and disbelief as every other man in the unknown army. The last to appear out of the corner of her eye was a dark-haired young man dressed all in black from his boots to his thick fur cloak. Lyaella couldn’t get a good look at him since he lingered back a few paces behind the other older men, but whoever he was, he didn’t look to be part of the unknown army or a Wildling. That made him a wild card in this situation and there was no reason to focus on him. Not when the rather stern-looking middle-aged man dressed in fine armor had successfully overcome his surprise and was slowly approaching her and the soldier retraining her.

He was in charge, no questions about it. The king claimant. Lyaella struggled twice as hard at the sight of him, her captor only barely managing to keep her in his grasp.

“T-Torrhen!”

The Southern king did a slight double take at her when she shouted, but it happened so fast and his head jerk was ever-so slight Lyaella wasn’t entirely certain he’d done it at all. Regardless, he paused only for a moment before addressing the man holding her.

“Was there someone else with her?”

“N-No, your grace. She’s —— ugh! She’s alone! Shit, kid! _Stop squirming!_ _”_

“Shadow! Shadow… I need y-you! Help!”

The king stared at her as she kept wailing for help and thrashing in the soldier’s arms. She didn’t care what he thought. She didn’t care what _anyone_ there thought. She had to keep struggling. Should she stop, they’d see she was ready to die. But she didn’t want to die, not when she still hadn’t yet met her parents, hadn’t yet changed the future to ensure their survival. And if she stopped screaming for even a _second,_ then Torrhen, Shadow, and Sōnar might never find her. Screaming for them was her only chance, now. Unless all three of them showed up now, she’d be dead in the next few minutes.

Finally, the unknown king shook his head lightly and glanced back over his shoulder at the older man. The one who still seemed vaguely familiar. “Help him with her.”

“Your grace?”

“We’re taking her with us.”

The older man blinked at him before looking over at Lyaella. He hesitated briefly, but then slowly trudged towards them. The soldier restraining her roughly dragged her behind him so he could meet the balding man halfway. Lyaella’s heart pounded like crazy in her chest with every step. She was breathing so fast she couldn’t even feel herself exhale. She was going to be killed, no question about it. This king claimant was going to execute her for sure. It was only the day after her ninth nameday, and she was about to die. She’d never see Torrhen, Shadow, or Sōnar again. She hadn’t even met her parents yet. But it didn’t matter. She was about to die. The realization was enough to make her mouth go dry and lips tingle.

“Torrhen!”

She felt dizzy. Her vision was spinning before her eyes. Wait… wasn’t the old man the one approaching her a second ago? Why was it the king claimant now? No… now he looked that Wildling prisoner. Now a soldier in the army. Another Wildling. The old man again. No, the man all in black.

“Shadow!”

It was too much. Too much stimulation, too many people. She couldn’t keep her thoughts in order or walk straight. She abruptly dug her heels into the ground, squeezed her eyes shut, and _screamed_ at the top of her lungs.

_“SŌNAR!”_

Less than a second later, a shrill screech echoed from further ahead in the woods. A screech no one there aside from the terrified little girl had ever heard before. Time stopped. Every man there seemed to forget all about the mysterious child and instead whipped around to where it came from. They were frozen with confusion.

But not Lyaella. No, the moment she heard it, her spinning vision corrected itself and her lips stopped tingling. She could feel herself breathe again as her panic ebbed away. Great floods of joy and relief washed over her whole being, and she found the inner strength to stomp down hard on the foot of the soldier restraining her and jam her elbow into his gut. He wasn’t really hurt thanks to his protective armor, but he was caught off guard thanks to the distraction of the mysterious screech and unintentionally loosened his grip. That was all she needed. Stomping down on his foot a second time, Lyaella broke free from his arms and sprinted with all her might towards the screeching.

She didn’t dare look back, but she could definitely hear several pairs of feet following her.

“No, stop!”

“Don’t let her get away!”

“You nuts, kid?! What in _seven hells_ are you—?!”

“S-Sōnar!” she cried, tripping and falling into the snow in her mad scramble to the trees. If she’d hurt herself, she didn’t even feel it. She was back on her feet again and dashing to the trees before anyone could blink. “Sōnar, over here! _HELP ME!_ _”_

A second screech resounded, this one sounding much louder and closer than the first. Moments later, the white dragon sprang out from beyond the pines, sharp fangs bared and hot embers trailing from her jaws. People cried out in shock and terror as they leapt back, most falling over themselves in their panic to get away from the dragon. Lyaella didn’t, though. No, the moment she saw Sōnar, she ran to the dragon with open arms.

“Sōnar!”

The white dragon kept her eyes fixed on all the soldiers and Wildlings staring at her and her small mistress in unmistakable disbelief, but she rumbled and stretched out a wing invitingly as Lyaella crashed into her side, hugging her tightly. As the little girl sobbed into the crook of her scaly neck, Sōnar growled threateningly at all the strangers while letting out a few more embers. Should any of them get too close without Lyaella’s consent, they’d all be burnt to a crisp before they could so much as raise their swords.

Lyaella paid no attention to the onlookers as she peppered Sōnar’s scales with dozens of kisses. She didn’t care about them now. Sōnar was here now. Her dragon. Her sister. So long as she was around, she was safe. Sōnar would protect her from these people. She wouldn’t let them hurt her. Not ever.

“S-Sōnar…” she wept. “Where… Where were you? I was s-so scared!”

Sōnar warbled, glancing away from the crowd momentarily to lightly nuzzle Lyaella with her snout. Her affection definitely soothed the child, but not enough to make her stop crying. Lyaella pressed her body as far into the dragons’ side as she could, desperately needing the familiar warmth and love of her dragon’s purrs. Sōnar seemed to understand that, and all at once the comforting rumble vibrated from deep within. Lyaella hugged her even tighter.

“Don’t leave me… P-Promise me, Sōnar! Don’t leave me again!”

Soft croons and gentle nuzzles answered her, and Lyaella felt such joy and relief. Her dragon would stay with her. She wouldn’t go off on her own again. That little bit of assurance was more than enough for the little girl.

A sudden shift of snow from behind made them both snap to attention. Lyaella whipped around in alarm. The soldier who had grabbed her before had taken a hesitant step forward. He automatically backed away again when Sōnar snarled and twisted her whole body around Lyaella protectively, puffs of smoke erupting from her mouth. Lyaella appreciated her friends’ vigilance, and patted her gratefully before turning her fearful gaze back out to the soldiers and Wildlings.

“Go… G-Go away,” she whimpered, still pressing up close against the scaly hide. “Please… leave us alone…”

No one moved, though. People just kept gawking at them in shock with their jaws dropped, though quite a few had overcome their initial terror and were cautiously murmuring to one another.

“Fuckin’ hell…”

“A dragon! A livin’ dragon!”

“House Targaryen…”

“Where did she come from?”

“Could she be a Blackfyre descendant?”

“We’re beyond the Wall… She’s gotta be a Wildling…”

The last random statement made the king claimant come back to his senses. Shaking away his initial shock, he reluctantly tore his eyes away from Lyaella and Sōnar and turned to the middle-aged Wildling prisoner.

“That true? She one of yours?” he asked.

The Wildling didn’t answer right away. He was still too shocked to hear what the false king had said. Finally, he shook his head. “My people are dyin’ left and right. Our only hope’s beyond that damn Wall. She were mine, we’d’ve killed all the men at Castle Black last night with that dragon.”

Lyaella’s ears perked up. Castle Black… that’s where her father had been stationed when he was part of the Night’s Watch. If she was beyond the Wall right now, and one of the king claimants from the War of the Five Kings was here fighting a Wildling army… then that must mean that this so-called king was Stannis Baratheon. And that Wildling prisoner… was he Mance Rayder, the King Beyond the Wall? She had no idea what Mance and his people thought about her and Sōnar, but Stannis Baratheon? She was dead for sure. Stannis wouldn’t hesitate to kill her to protect his claim.

Finding Torrhen and Shadow would have to wait. She and Sōnar had to get out of here. _Now._ Her brother had no classic features of House Targaryen aside from his violet eyes. He could blend in easily and no one would think twice unless they got a good look at him. He always was the braver one out of the two of them, never afraid to speak his mind or do whatever he needed to do. So long as he stuck by Shadow, he could look after himself. Her though? She was such a crybaby and so shy. She couldn’t even swing a sword well enough in a play-fight against her twin. Were it not for Sōnar appearing right when she did, her head would be on a spike already.

Quivering in terror at that thought, Lyaella did her best to organize her scattered thoughts. If Sōnar were only a tad bit bigger, she could simply climb onto her back and fly out of here to escape these people. But her dragon was just barely the size of a horse and not big enough yet to carry people and fly at the same time. She and Torrhen had tried before, about a week before their nameday. They’d wanted to see if she could at least carry one of them alone, because if so, they’d planned to sneak out after dark with Shadow and a few packed necessities and take turns riding their dragon out of Winterfell to officially run away. Sadly, Sōnar had only made it a few feet off the ground while carrying only Torrhen before stumbling back down again.

She wouldn’t be carrying anyone until her next growth spurt, at least. That meant getting out of here was going to be exceedingly difficult. The easiest course of action was to simply order Sōnar to burn everyone here, but she didn’t want to do that. She wasn’t a murderer. If someone tried attacking her or Sōnar, she’d give the order, but only in self-defense. Not cold blood. Maybe she should take Sōnar and run back into the trees where her dragon had leapt out from. That way had to be clear, considering how fast Sōnar had found her. But wait… that Wildling man said they were beyond the Wall right now. Was the Wall in that direction? Her father was part of the Night’s Watch right now if her theory on the current time period was correct. He was only a hop, skip, and a jump away, and if Torrhen and Shadow were somewhere nearby, that’s where they’d be going to. She had to get to Castle Black. What if running through those trees led her farther away from the Wall?

She was jolted out of her musing rather unexpectedly when Stannis Baratheon decided to approach, and the familiar older fellow next to him followed a few paces behind him.

“Child, where did you—?”

Lyaella screamed in terror again as Sōnar let out another furious roar, even going so far as to literally spit out warning flames a few feet away. Stannis and the other man got the message and backed away again, but Lyaella didn’t notice. Her heart was pounding like crazy in her chest. She was so scared she could feel her eyes glistening with tears. She didn’t want to cry, though. She didn’t want anyone there to see just how afraid she was. She swallowed thickly and did her best to hold them in despite how much her lower lip was trembling, but it was no use. Her eyes were becoming wetter and wetter with each passing second, and her shoulders started quivering from her repressed fear. It was just too much for Lyaella. She spun around and buried her face deep into the crook of Sōnar’s neck to hide as she completely burst into tears.

“G-Go away!” she sobbed. “Leave us alone! Just… Just go away!”

For a little while, all was silent in the clearing aside from her frightened sobs and Sōnar’s occasional growls. Lyaella knew she should take advantage of the silence and start dragging Sōnar with her deeper into the woods, but she couldn’t find it in herself to move. She was cold. She was scared. She was alone. She didn’t know what to do.

“Nice lyre. Belongs to you, I assume?”

Lyaella didn’t know who spoke, but their words caught her attention for two reasons. They mentioned her lyre. She’d been in such a frenzy when that guard had grabbed her before, she had completely forgotten about how she’d dropped her lyre when he tackled her to the ground. And whoever this was, they had a Northern accent. They weren’t part of Stannis Baratheon’s army. She turned her head out from Sōnar’s neck a bit, just enough that she could catch a glimpse of the crowd from the corner of her eye. The dark-haired man dressed all in black was holding her lyre, studying it. Everyone else was staring at him, but he disregarded their stares. He turned her instrument over and over again in his hands, inspecting it for any signs of damage.

Lyaella trembled. She didn’t dare fully turn her head to see him better, but her anxiety increased exponentially. That lyre meant everything to her. It was her only connection to Torrhen, to the memories she had of them honoring their parents. Did he mean to take it away from her?

“That’s… That’s mine. Give it b-back.”

He was too far away for her to make out his expression, but she did see him take a few hesitant steps forward. Sōnar instinctively started to growl at him, but Lyaella patted her side to assure her it was fine. As soon as that man put down her lyre in close enough range for her to grab it, she’d order him to get back while she grabbed it. After that she and Sōnar would run. They had to find Torrhen and Shadow, wherever they were. If they were lucky, both the Baratheon army and the Wildling army would leave them in peace.

That couldn’t happen though until that man returned her lyre to her, and he was walking very, very slowly towards her and Sōnar. He carefully contemplated every step he took as he kept one eye trained on her, and the other on her dragon. No one said anything as he cautiously drew closer to her, but as soon as he was a little less than a yard away, Lyaella tightened her hold around Sōnar’s neck. Sōnar growled, low and threatening.

“T-That’s far enough. Drop it and b-back off…”

Slowly, he put down her instrument and stepped back. Not far enough back that he rejoined the rest of the crowd, but enough that Lyaella was assured that he wouldn’t be able to grab her. Hesitating only for a moment, she took a few uncertain steps away from her dragon with her eyes fixed solely on her lyre, then abruptly shot forward, scooped it up, and nearly tripped over herself as she scrambled back to the protective safety of Sōnar’s side. Sōnar seemed to sense she still wanted to hide, and unfurled her wing slightly so she cocoon her against her scales.

Lyaella expected that the man would gradually back off now, but he didn’t. Instead, he stayed right where he was, gaze shifting back and forth between her and Sōnar. “A dragon. Can’t believe it,” he murmured. “A real dragon…”

Lyaella hadn’t gotten a good look at him yet, but he didn’t sound angry or threatening. Just bewildered. Feeling more tears gather in her eyes, she turned her head a tad bit further. She didn’t dare meet his eyes. She was still too scared to do that, but she did study his clothing. She’d noticed before he was dressed all in black whereas in silver armor like the soldiers in Stannis Baratheon’s army or in white and gray furs like all the Wildlings watching, but upon closer inspection, she noticed that his clothes were of a completely different style than either party. If anything, his armor resembled what the guards back in Winterfell generally wore, and his cloak had lots of thick, bushy wool along around the collar. It was relatively dirty and stained, but it looked like it had originally been of somewhat high-quality and was made from some type of warm, twill-like fabric. The kind that only lower-class Northern lords and ladies bought… or upper-class nobles spent on their bastard children whereas purchasing warmer, fancier cloaks of fine burned-out velvet or chenille on their true-born families.

This man… he had a Northern accent. He was wearing Northern apparel befitting of lords and ladies, but not quite of the same quality as _real_ highborns. And everything was dyed black… didn’t the Night’s Watch have a policy that everything that the brothers wore while guarding the Wall had to be dyed black? Lyaella wasn’t entirely certain considering the organization had been disbanded once the War for the Dawn ended, but part of her suspected they did. Could he be one of watchers on the Wall?

Hope sprung in her chest. If he was… then perhaps there was a silver lining to her landing in the past in the middle of whatever battle was happening right now at the moment she did. The Night’s Watch were supposed to be neutral in regards to politics throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Unlike Stannis Baratheon, they would have no reason to hurt her just because of her Targaryen heritage. She’d be safe with him… but more importantly, he could be her key to getting into Castle Black. He could take her to her father.

Still, she wasn’t entirely certain. She needed to know for sure before letting herself get excited. “You’re all in b-black. Are you… part of the N-Night’s Watch?”

From the corner of her eye, she saw the faintest trace of a smile. “Aye, that’s right. I help man the Wall. But I never thought a little girl like you would end up on this side of it, let alone a dragon.”

Lyaella said nothing to that. She didn’t know what to say, period. She just tucked her face fully back into Sōnars’ scales to hide. It was a good thing she did too, because an icy gust wind suddenly breezed through the clearing. Lyaella shivered and pressed up even closer to her dragon. She was a Northerner. She’d grown up in Wintefell during a neverending Winter, yet she was colder now in the ten minutes she’d arrived in the past beyond the Wall than she could ever remember being before during the coldest nights back in the castle.

“Cold wind… Not good. Means it’s gonna get even colder later. Being alone out here when that happens? Can’t imagine it…”

“I’m n-not alone,” she mumbled, still not looking out again. “I… I’ve got Sōnar with me. And… T-Torrhen and Shadow.”

“Torrhen? Shadow?”

“My twin. Twin b-brother… and Shadow. H-He’s our friend.”

She heard his breath hitch. “Brother?” He was quiet for a moment, but Lyaella didn’t know why. She refused to look back out at him again. So long as she hid her face up against Sōnar’s scales, no one would see just how scared she was. “Well… where is he? And what about Shadow?”

Lyaella tensed and didn’t reply. She didn’t know. Where was her brother? Where was their direwolf? Why did only Sōnar come to her rescue?

There was a heavy sigh. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Is that why they’re not here now?”

Tears prickled in her eyes again. She sniffled a bit, trying to suppress them. It was no use. A small whimper escaped her as the first drops of water ran down her cheeks, and soon her whole body was trembling as she quietly cried.

“Look, why you come with me back to the Wall? Get out of the cold, at least. We’ll… We’ll figure out something from there.”

This was it. Her window of opportunity to get into Castle Black and meet her father. She’d be stupid not to take it. But still…

Sniffling hard, she turned her head just enough to ensure _everyone_ there could hear her, and she made sure her eyes were fixed firmly on her feet as she spoke. “I… I’m not gonna be k-killed? You’re not gonna… gonna h-hand me over to Stannis Baratheon?”

“What?”

“He w-wants the throne… Is he gonna k-kill me and Sōnar?”

Silence. Heavy silence. In her peripheral vision, Lyaella saw the man in black freeze up for a moment before slowly turning to look over his shoulder at the Baratheon leader. He wasn’t the only one either. Everyone there — soldiers and Wildlings alike — immediately turned to the stag king. She couldn’t make out Stannis’ reaction unless she fully turned to look at him, but she did catch a glimpse of the older man murmur something quietly to him. Wait… now she understood why that old man looked familiar. That was Ser Davos! He looked so much younger and surprisingly enough had more hair now compared to when she’d last met him back in her time-line, but she was almost positive it was him.

Stannis and Ser Davos conversed quietly for several moments, but finally they nodded to each other and glanced back to her, Sōnar, and the man of the Night’s Watch.

“I shall reserve judgment on this for now. I won’t have her or the dragon harmed.”

That satisfied the man in black, and he turned to look back at Lyaella and Sōnar. “Hear that? No one will hurt you, I promise.”

“People… People often b-break their promises…”

“I don’t. You know why? Because my father was Warden of the North, the most honorable man I ever knew, and he taught me how important it is to stay true to your word.”

Time stopped. The world fell away. Nothing else mattered to Lyaella. Not after hearing that.

Sucking in a breath, Lyaella poked her head out from Sōnar’s scales and slowly turned to look at him. He was young, no mistaking that. Older than a boy, yet not quite a man. His hair was dark, she’d noticed that before, but she hadn’t realized that it was pitch black and curly. Wild, tangled, and flyaway, but curly nonetheless, and the unkempt state of his short beard was equally untidy. There were quite a few pale scars marring his face, scars which Lyaella knew for a fact weren’t on the face of a certain statue down in the Winterfell crypts that she and Torrhen had sat next to only the night before, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that this man was an almost spot on older version of Torrhen.

Aside from his eyes. Torrhen had violet eyes. This man had gray eyes.

_Her eyes._

Her lyre slipped out of her fingers. Her vision swayed. She stared at him, incredulous. It couldn’t be…

“You’re… You’re Jon Snow,” she said, wonder-struck. He blinked at her, seemingly puzzled. She disregarded it. She was too shocked. “You… You’re—”

“Aye,” he said slowly, giving her a queer look. “I’m Ned Stark’s son.”

“—like _me._ _”_

He blinked again, as did those watching. “What?”

More tears sprang forth, but Lyaella didn’t care this time. These were happy tears. She took a single step away from Sōnar, wanting to run to him, to hug him. The world spun around her the moment she did, and it took all her energy to stay upright.

“I… I’m Lyaella,” she whispered, smiling shyly up at her father. “Lyaella Snow…”

And with that, the world disappeared into darkness.

* * *

It was pure instinct that made Jon rush forward and catch the little girl when she fainted. And that same instinct made him nearly drop her when her dragon lashed forward and snarled at him.

Vaguely, Jon registered that everyone else was quickly drawing their swords, worried that the beast might attack. He didn’t dare look back to see for himself, though. His eyes were locked solely on the enraged dragon bearing down on him. He wished he hadn’t left Longclaw back at Castle Black with Sam. He had no idea whether Valyrian steel could pierce dragon hide, but some protection would be better than none right now. Holding onto the girl, he took a single step back, but the dragon growled harshly again, teeth bared and eyes narrowed.

It took all his willpower not to falter. “I… I’m not going to hurt her,” he said thickly. He had no idea whether or not the dragon could understand human speech, if it only obeyed the little girl in his arms, or if only those with the blood of Old Valyria could connect with such a beast. But calming it down was the only chance any of them had at avoiding an instantaneous death by fire. “I swear it…”

For a little while, everything was silent in the clearing. No one dared to so much as breathe as the snowy white dragon stared him down, growling every few seconds or so. If the beast attacked, they were done for. It was no Balerion the Dread reborn, but even a dragon the size of a horse would have no trouble burning them all if it decided they were threats to itself or its little mistress. But miraculously it stopped snarling and flashing its fangs. Its blue eyes stayed fixed on the child, but all immediate signs of attack decreased exponentially. The tension in the air dissipated as people sighed in relief.

Jon wanted to relax too, but he couldn’t. Not when the dragon was still keeping a watchful eye on him and the little girl. The girl… he glanced down at her, curious. She was covered in scratches all over her arms and hands, and her wintry cloak and blue dress were definitely of traditional Northern design, not anything the Free Folk would wear. And she has the same lilt to her voice as he did, a Northern dialect, not to mention she had known who Stannis Baratheon was. Wherever this little girl had come from, she was definitely from south of the Wall. But still… she was a Northerner. A Northerner with Targaryen blood judging by her hair color and that dragon. And a bastard on top it. Weren’t all the Targaryens aside from the Dragon Queen in the east supposed to be gone? Who was she? Where in the world did she come from? And what about that twin brother she mentioned, and that oddly named friend Shadow? Where were they? What about the rest of her family?

So many questions were running through his head, but he had no time to muse over them. Not when the most important thing to do right now push them aside and get this girl back to Castle Black. Figuring out that stuff could happen later. Right now, he needed to get her out the cold before she either froze to death or was attacked by some attention-seeking Baratheon soldier wanting to get favor with his king. Castle Black certainly wasn’t the safest place in the world for a little girl all alone, but at the moment, it was better than the alternative.

Lingering only a moment longer to collect the child’s dropped lyre, he hesitantly turned around, letting the dragon fully absorb each movement he made so as not to set it off again. A low growl resonated from the back of its throat, but other than that, it stayed mostly calm. It followed him as he slowly carried the girl and her instrument back to the main crowd. People instantly froze as it approached, but aside from quick precursory glances at anyone holding a weapon, the dragon ignored them. The only thing it appeared to care about was the safety of the little girl. What was her name again? Layla…? Leela…? Lyla…? She fainted so fast right after she said it he hadn’t absorbed it. Whatever it was, it sounded like a Targaryen name, just not one he ever heard of.

He was just approaching Stannis and his hand — Davos, wasn’t it? Jon could have sworn he heard Stannis mention it in passing earlier — when the king stepped forward. The dragon’s eyes immediately flicked to him, but aside from a momentary flicker of tension in his jaw, the Baratheon king remained unfazed. “You handled that well. I can see why the Night’s Watch sent you out to negotiate with the Wildlings.”

Jon didn’t know what to say in regards to that, but he nodded anyway. “Thank you, your grace.”

Stannis glanced down curiously at the little girl, her long silver hair covering her face a bit as she curled up unknowingly against his chest as she slept. Jon had no idea what could be going through Stannis’ mind right now. Was he going to go back on his word not to harm her or the dragon? Jon didn’t know the kid, and he had no attachment at all to House Targaryen after what happened to his grandfather, uncle, and aunt due to both the Mad King and Prince Rhaegar, but he had still promised the girl that she’d be safe with him for the moment. If Stannis decided it was too much of a risk letting this little girl live even though she claimed to be a bastard, there wasn’t anything he could do. He was only one man amongst thousands of soldiers who were all in Stannis’ service.

It seemed like an eternity had passed when he finally tore his eyes away from the little girl, but he didn’t look up at Jon. Instead, he glanced over at Mance Rayder of all people. Mance made no visible reaction to Stannis’ gaze, but he did glance over at Jon and the sleeping girl with undisguised interest.

“What? Yeh still think she’s one of mine? I’ve never seen her before. Her or that dragon.”

Stannis said nothing back to that, but he did turn away from Mance. He stared at the girl again, still deep in thought.

“Your grace, this is a child,” said Davos abruptly, genuine concern in his eyes. “It’s… It’s one thing to be against King Tommen, he’s a bastard sitting on the throne that is rightfully yours. But this girl… she might be a bastard too, but she’s done nothing against you. Don’t harm her.”

Stannis was quiet for a moment and he mulled over those words, but then he glanced up at the dragon. The dragon sensed his gaze and snapped its head around at once to glare at him. The hairs rose on the back of Jon’s neck as a slight snarl escaped its throat, so low he wouldn’t have heard it at all if he hadn’t been standing so close to it.

Stannis also heard it, judging by how his shoulders tensed. “And the dragon, Ser Davos? How do I know she’s not of some unknown direct relation to the Targaryen girl in Essos?”

“You don’t know that for sure, your grace. Better to know for certain than make a terrible mistake.”

That seemed to resonate with Stannis somewhat, but not enough to fully sway him. There was a long pause, but finally he turned to look over at Jon.

“You’re really Ned Stark’s son?”

Jon blinked, but quickly nodded. “Aye, your grace.”

“Your father was an honorable man.”

“He was, your grace.”

“What do you think he’d have done with her? Honor dictates he should’ve turned her over to my brother to be executed, regardless of her last name. But everyone knows he hated what happened to the Targaryen children.”

Jon stared at Stannis for a moment, not even sure what to say. That was an interesting question. What _would_ his father had done if he were here right now? He stared down at the little girl. She was still out cold, head resting against his chest and her face still stained with dried tears. She’d been so scared before, running away from everyone in terror and not even wanting to look at anyone directly. She might have a dragon, but she didn’t strike him as dangerous.

“She’s a little girl, your grace,” he said. “I don’t know where she or that dragon came from, but she could’ve killed us all without thinking twice, and she didn’t. She just hid behind it, terrified. I don’t know what my father would’ve done about reporting her, but I think he would’ve brought her back to Winterfell. Fed her, clothed her. Figured out who she is, at least. Unless you say otherwise, your grace, that’s what I was planning to do with her.”

The king considered him silently, then nodded once. “Very well, bring her back to Castle Black. If the Lord Commander turns her away though, I would request that the Night’s Watch allow me to deal with her… and this dragon.” His eyes slid over to the creature in question, expression unreadable.

“We have no official Lord Commander at the moment, your grace. Lord Mormont… he died quite some time ago. We haven’t had the chance to choose a new leader yet.”

“I see, well in any case, I’ll discuss this with the acting officers then. But about that dragon… It seems tame for now, and it better stay that way. My wife and daughter should already be at Castle Black, I was _not_ going to leave them behind at Dragonstone with only minimal guards for protection in the event the Lannister’s tried something. I intend to make it clear to the Night’s Watch that no one is to harm them, let alone _look_ at them the wrong way… but if either of them — especially Shireen — is harmed in the slightest way because of that dragon… there _will_ be consequences against it and that girl, regardless of whatever the Night’s Watch decides.”

Jon stiffly nodded. He couldn’t really fault the man for that. He was only looking after his family. As Stannis turned and started nodding at his generals to gather the Free Folk prisoners together, realization then dawned on Jon, and he quickly spoke up again. “Your grace, if my father had seen the things I’ve seen here beyond the Wall, he’d also tell you to burn the dead before nightfall. All of them.”

Stannis stared at him, as did Davos. Jon didn’t know what they were thinking about his suggestion, but something in his eyes must have convinced them that this wasn’t an idle request. Wordlessly, the stag king nodded and signaled to his generals to gather the bodies of the deceased.

And that was that. No further complaints or inquiries. For now, no one else would attempt to harm the little girl, or her dragon. It was surprising, but everything else could wait until Jon got her back to Castle Black. With that, he ignored the unease welling up inside him as Stannis’ men gathered up what remained of the Free Folk, and joined everyone when they began the long march back to the Wall.

Many stared at Jon as he trudged through the snow with the girl, Stormlanders and Free Folk alike, but no one said a word. Her dragon was directly behind him, and although Jon didn’t glance back at it and kept his eyes focused straight ahead, he sensed it watched him like a hawk. It was amazing, how protective it was of the child. It reminded Jon of how protective Ghost was of him and his friends. Still, Jon couldn’t help but wish they could get to the Wall already so he could put her down and get out of the way. He didn’t want to be under the scrutiny of a dragon any longer than necessary.

They had just cleared the trees and were beginning the long walk across the open space of land between the tunnel and the Haunted Forest when the girl began to stir. She groaned a bit as she came to her senses.

“Huh…? What… W-What’s going—?”

“You fainted before. I’m taking you back to Castle Black.”

Blinking rapidly, sleepy eyes focused on him. Smoke gray eyes. “Oh,” she said simply.

Jon hadn’t even noticed what color her eyes were before, but for some reason, they tugged at something deep inside him. He wasn’t even sure what, exactly. “When we go through the tunnel, I’m going to put you down right before we get to the other side. Don’t follow me right away. Stay with your dragon inside ‘til I call for you.”

“W-Why?”

He paused, deliberating his words. “I’m not sure how people will react to both of you. Let me give them a heads up first so no one attacks you right away, _especially_ after last night.”

“Last night? I… I w-wasn’t here last night, though.”

“No, but everyone’ll be on edge after the battle last night. Fifty brothers died after the Free Folk attacked the Wall.”

“F-Free Folk? Do you m-mean the Wildlings? Aren’t… Aren’t they d-dangerous?”

He frowned. The simple question sat poorly with him. There was once a time when he too thought the Free Folk were the greatest threat beyond the Wall aside from the stories of he’d heard as a boy about giants and ice spiders. Now, he knew the people who lived in the True North were the only good things out here, period. And Ygritte… she’d been deadly with a bow, but she should still be _here._ Alive. Not another corpse rotting in Castle Black in the aftermath of last night.

“They’re just people, same as you and me. End of story.”

“Oh.”

Jon was relieved. She still seemed relatively quiet and stuttered a lot, but if that was because she was scared as opposed to her true nature, than she was certainly calmer now than before. He nearly put her down as they entered the tunnel, but she suddenly wrapped both her arms around his neck and tucked her head into his shoulder to hide. She held onto him tightly, seeming unwilling to let of him before he was forced to put her down for even a second longer than necessary.

He let it go for now, though. She was obviously still somewhat scared and anxious about whatever might happen. Truthfully, Jon himself had no idea what Thorne would do or say once he revealed her to everyone. At the very least, they could house her for one night. From there on… it was anyone’s guess as to what would be done about this girl.

As they drew closer to the tunnel exit, Jon halted in his tracks just out of discernible sight from the main entrance and set her down. Her dragon immediately stepped up next to her and sniffed her hair, but she focused solely on him.

“When can I c-come out?” she asked.

He shifted uncertainly. “I’ll call for you. Just… wait here for a few minutes.”

She frowned and said nothing further, but nodded nonetheless. Satisfied, Jon motioned for Stannis and Davos to follow him out.

As he had expected, many men were milling about in the courtyard and were either dragging in wood from from out on the other side of the Wall to build pyres or were separating out the dead bodies from their deceased brothers or Free Folk. A fair share of them were staring curiously at the forms of a rather severe-looking woman with dark hair, a slightly younger woman with fiery red hair and dressed all in red, and a young girl maybe only a year or two older than the Targaryen child still waiting out in the tunnel. The little girl was obviously Stannis’ daughter, Princess Shireen, but Jon didn’t know which of the two older women was his wife, let alone who the second woman was. Regardless, the three of them were accompanied by a fair number of Stormlands guards. He turned away from them though as Sam ran up to him.

“Jon! You’re all right!”

“Aye, I’m still in one piece,” he said, forcing a smile as he accepted Longclaw back and secured it around his waist. “We’ll live to see tomorrow, thankfully.”

“Ser Alliser’s relieved. Made himself get up to see for himself. Maester Aemon’s not happy, told him to stay in bed and rest his leg.”

“Where is he?”

Sam turned and pointed to the group speaking to the ladies traveling in the Baratheon army. “Over there, speaking to Queen Selyse.”

The dark-haired woman was speaking directly to Thorne. The acting Lord Commander looked somewhat shaky on his feet due to last night’s injuries, but he pressed through the pain in his leg to do his duties as a temporary leader. Still, Thorne’s head swiveled around the moment he sensed Jon and the others stares, and he excused himself from the women to aproach. Jon couldn’t make out in his expression what he thought about Stannis’ forces coming to their aid, but a quick flash of the older man’s eyes focusing on him before flicking to Stannis told him that he was beyond pissed that he’d left to talk to Mance without clearing it with him.

“Stannis Baratheon, I assume?” he said, forgoing titles.

Stannis’ expression didn’t change in the slightest, but Davos’ brows furrowed. “He is _King_ Stannis, the one true king of Westeros.”

It seemed to take all of Thorne’s willpower to maintain a neutral expression like Stannis as he stiffly nodded. “My apologies,” he said gruffly, sticking out his hand. “I’m Ser Alliser, I’m in charge here at Castle Black. You have my thanks for your assistance with the Wildlings.”

Stannis’ face still remained unreadable as he slowly accepted the handshake. “Yes, I heard about you briefly from your man, here. You’re the _acting_ -Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, yes?”

Thorne’s fists clenched up. Jon knew why. It was a well-known fact in Castle Black that Thorne despised House Baratheon, hence why he hated him so much. He was the bastard son of Ned Stark, best friend of Robert the Usurper. That he had to extend pleasantries with the younger brother of the man who had sentenced him to the Wall following the end of the rebellion had to be killing him. “I’ve assumed temporary command over the Watch, yes. Is that a problem?”

“For me, no. For the one still waiting in the tunnel, that depends.”

Thorne blinked, as did many other men who were slowly gathering. “What?”

Jon cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Ser Alliser, there… there was something —— _someone_ out there, just now. I brought them back.”

Thorne scowled. “I know you’re a Wildling lover, Lord Snow, just like Tarly here. You trying to save them even after last night?”

“She’s not a Wildling, Ser Alliser. She’s—”

“Oh, you prefer we call your Wildling lover ‘Free Folk?’ Not everyone’s willing to fraternize with the enemy.”

“It’s a child, ser.”

Whatever Ser Alliser expected him to say, it wasn’t that. He blinked, surprised. So did Sam and Edd, the latter having pushed his way through the crowd to greet him. The rest of the onlookers murmured curiously to one another at the revelation, and Jon noticed in the corner of his eye that Princess Shireen had straightened up in interest at the news. She too tried to wander closer to find out more, but the bony hand of the strict dark-haired woman caught her shoulder. Queen Selyse, he assumed. Jon couldn’t hear whatever it was she said to the Baratheon princess, but it made the poor girl’s expression fall and quietly step back into place beside her and the Red Woman.

Jon half-expected the older man to demand details from him, but instead, Thorne’s eyes locked onto Mance as he was escorted out of the tunnel by various soldiers. “Oi, Rayder! I knew you’d come back to deal with us one day. All deserters pay for breaking their oaths eventually. Never thought you’d use children to fight us, though.”

Mance’s eyes slowly turned to Thorne, amusement shining in them clear as day. “I had _nothin_ _’_ to do with this kid. If I had, Castle Black would’ve fallen months ago. My people would already be safe in the South.”

Thorne just looked even more puzzled. There was no point prolonging it. Should they beat around the bush too long, the old knight would only get angry again. Sucking in a breath, Jon slowly turned back to the tunnel.

“Come on out,” he called.

There was a pause, but just as Jon started to worry that maybe the silver-haired little girl had taken her dragon and bolted out of the tunnel on the side they’d first entered as soon as he and Stannis left her alone, there was a small sound of quiet footsteps followed by heavy thumping. Moments later she appeared, squeezing her lyre and not daring to venture more than two steps away from the dragons’ side.

Thorne’s half-puzzled, half-annoyed expression was instantly wiped away. He stared at her, unable to hide his shock. Practically all of the Night’s Watch matched his expression, some even backing away fearfully from the little girl despite how scared she seemed to be of all of them. Vaguely, Jon registered that Princess Shireen was momentarily startled, but her fear was quickly morphing away into wonder and excitement. She tried to squeeze her way past her guards to get a better look, but the Stormlands guards quickly shoved her back and crowded protectively around her and Queen Selyse. Her mother dragged her closer to her, keeping a firm grip on her shoulder while staring solely at the silver-haired girl and the dragon. The Red Woman seemed to be the only person there who showed no fear whatsoever. Other than blinking a few times in surprise, she was smiling mysteriously, intrigued. The blood red skirts of her dress swished around her legs as she easily breezed through the crowd.

Stannis turned to her as she approached. “Lady Melisandre.”

“The Lord has blessed you with a great victory, my king. He guided you to victory today, and now he has bestowed upon you an even greater gift.”

Stannis said nothing in return, but Jon was certain he saw a flicker of approval flash in his eyes. Upon closer inspection, he realized that she was a Red Priestess. She didn’t wear any robes signifying her religion, but men came to the Wall from all corners of Westeros. They told stories, he’d heard them. One of the most prominent ones regarding the War of the Five Kings was how one of Stannis’ most trusted advisers was a priestess of a foreign Essosi religion. This had to be her.

Ruby lips trailing upwards, the priestess swept past her king and approached the girl, kneeling down before her. Jon half-expected the child to scream in terror and hide up against the dragon again, but she didn’t. She visibly flinched and her hands started shaking as she clutched her instrument, but aside from that, she didn’t move.

Melisandre didn’t say anything to her at first. She just studied the little girl, expression unreadable aside from her smile. The girl cringed away from her, clearly uncomfortable. “Y-You’re… You’re a Red God w-worshipper…” she whimpered, lower lip trembling. “You believe in… in the L-Lord of Light…”

“Indeed I am. The Lord works in mysterious ways. He has guided you here.”

The girl tensed a bit at that, but her dragon rumbled lightly, shifting closer to her. Many in the crowd shot backwards several feet upon seeing it move, but aside from growling lightly at the sudden movements from the crowd, the dragon did nothing in retaliation. Its attention was focused on the stranger in front of its human charge.

“It is by his will that the Prince that was Promised has found you and your dragon. Stannis Baratheon is the one true king of Westeros. The Lord’s chosen one, and he shall—”

“He’s not.”

Melisandre blinked at the interruption. “Beg your pardon?”

Gray darted nervously to Stannis, then slowly returned to the priestess. “His l-last name’s not Targaryen. He’s _not_ the rightful king.”

Jon sucked in a silent breath. What was going through this kids’ head? Other men of the Watch and Stormlands soldiers exchanged uneasy murmurs, and Davos glanced over uncertainly at Stannis. Luckily, Stannis didn’t seem to be angered by the remark. He didn’t react at all beyond quirking a brow.

Melisandre was definitely caught off guard by the honest statement, but she recovered after only a momentary pause. “He is the Son of Fire, Azor Ahai reborn. The blood of Old Valyria runs through his veins.”

The girl looked extremely uncomfortable, but aside from glancing over at Jon himself for reasons unknown, she was undeterred. “They r-run through… through my brother’s veins, too. But he’s n-not a prince. And I’m not a p-princess… We’re no one.”

The priestess was again surprised, but the girl didn’t wait for her to speak again. Tucking the lyre under her arm, she pinched the skirts of her ice blue dress to make a quick curtsy, then slipped past Melisandre to hide behind Jon. The priestess looked like she wanted to say more, but she dropped the matter and stepped aside when the dragon purposefully cut in front of her to stay close to the child.

Jon couldn’t help but tense when she scampered behind him. He glanced over his shoulder at her and saw she was peeking out nervously at everyone, unwilling to step out of hiding. She somehow sensed his gaze and glanced up. With a gasp, she flung her arms around his waist and buried her face into his black cloak. She murmured something, but whatever it was, Jon didn’t know. They were all muffled by the cloak. He didn’t know what to think, let alone do. She’d been so scared of everyone out in the Haunted Forest until he calmed her down, but aside from carrying her here, he didn’t do much. Why was she suddenly so attached to him?

For the longest time, no one seemed to know what to say. People just stared at her, him, or the dragon in complete silence. Jon didn’t want to hurt the girl when she still so upset, but she needed a place where she could calm down in private. And judging by the look Thorne was giving him, he owed his brothers in the Watch a full explanation about what happened out there beyond the Wall. She needed to be elsewhere right now.

“Ser Alliser, she’s all scratched up. Maester Aemon should take a look at her arms.”

Thorne considered his words, then gruffly nodded while turning to Sam. “Tarly?”

Sam thickly gulped, eying the dragon worriedly, but he still stepped forward.

“Hello there,” he said kindly, kneeling down to the girl’s level. There was a definite trace of anxiety in his tone, but luckily the girl didn’t seem to care. She reluctantly poked her face out from the folds of the cloak. “I’m Sam. Samwell Tarly. I… I don’t think I caught your name, though?”

She sniffled. “Ly… Lyaella,” she mumbled. “Lyaella S-Snow…”

Jon felt much better after hearing her say her name once again and made a mental note to remember it. _Lyaella Snow._ Pretty. Very pretty, but what type of Targaryen name was ‘Lyaella?’ He couldn’t remember any women from House Targaryen during his studies with Maester Luwin that had such a name.

Sam didn’t seem to care about that, though. “Layla? That’s a nice name.”

“N-No… It’s Lyaella.”

“Lyla? All right, Lyla. I’m gonna take you to see Maester Aemon, okay? We’ll see if he can’t do something about your arms.”

“But—”

“Come on, this way.”

Sam held out his hand to her, smiling warmly. Lyaella bit her lip, reluctant to separate from Jon. She glanced up at him anxiously. Despite how puzzled he personally felt by the whole situation, Jon forced a smile.

“Go on. Sam’s a good guy, and so’s Maester Aemon. You’ll be all right.”

She hesitated a moment longer, then stiffly nodded. Taking Sam’s hand, she thickly swallowed and jerked her head at the dragon. “C-Come on, Sōnar…”

Was that the dragon’s name? Sōnar? Had to be, considering how it warbled at the child. Sam quivered as he stood up, but aside from glancing back repeatedly at the dragon, he kept his cool about him as he slowly led Lyaella through the crowd and up the steps of the wooden walkways, Sōnar on their heels the entire time.

Even after Sam politely knocked and entered Maester Aemon’s small workroom with Lyaella and Sōnar in tow, no one said anything. They just stared in bewildered silence as the door shut behind them. It almost seemed like it would stay that way for awhile, but Ser Alliser abruptly spun around and coughed loudly to get everyone’s attention.

“All right, you lot! Back to work! Keep building those pyres!”

One of the builders stepped forward, befuddled. “But Ser Alliser, what about—?”

“You not hear me? I said, ‘back to work.’ _Now!_ We’ll deal with the Targaryen child later.”

Those in the Watch didn’t appear to be appeased, but they obeyed nonetheless. The Baratheon soldiers also wanted to know more, but a quick look from Stannis quelled any inquiries before they were even made, and they wordlessly assisted in gathering the dead and building pyres. Jon nearly slipped away to assist Edd in carrying the lifeless form of Pyp down from the upper walkways, but Thorne quickly blocked his path.

Thorne glared at him darkly. “Lord Snow.”

He fought the urge to sigh. “Ser Alliser?”

“You found that girl out there? With the Wildlings?”

“Yes, ser.”

“She’s dressed in Northern clothes though… You say she was alone?”

“She mentioned something about having a twin brother called Torrhen and a friend named Shadow, but there was no sign of them, ser.”

“And the rest of her family?”

“She didn’t mention them.”

Thorne mused over this for awhile, they curtly nodded. “We’ll discuss this more later. Help out with the dead.”

Jon didn’t need to be told twice. He jogged off without a second word. He hated Thorne, no arguments there, but at this moment, he was relatively grateful to him. Had the acting-Lord Commander decided to throw Lyaella out, it was anyone’s guess what would’ve happened to her.

Hours went by as they continued building pyres for all the fallen brothers. Sam rejoined them after the first hour passed, but despite how everyone had immediately started pressing him for details about the girl, Sam couldn’t really tell them much. She had allowed Maester Aemon to tend to the scratches on her arms, but she hadn’t said much of anything the entire time aside from asking if the Night’s Watch had found any trace of her brother or their friend Shadow, or if she was otherwise forced to talk. It was clear based on the few questions he and Aemon had asked her that she was oblivious of her relation to the former Targaryen prince. Sam explained that the two of them had agreed that it was not the time to discuss it with her since she still seemed so shaken up. No one said anything in disagreement. They all had questions about Lyaella Snow, but they wouldn’t be getting any answers from her. Not until she calmed down.

It was practically sundown when everything was finally ready. All that remained of the Night’s Watch gathered together in the courtyard in front of the pyres, a select handful carrying lit torches to light the pyres once the overall funeral proceedings were over. Stannis’ company lingered to watch and pay their respects, too.

Aside from Thorne, Maester Aemon was accompanied only by Sam on the platform in front of elevator leading up to the top of the Wall, and that was only so he could be the eyes the hundred-year-old man had lost to blindness and old age so many years before. As soon as Sam saw that everyone was ready, he whispered the news to his mentor.

Maester Aemon smiled sadly as he stepped up to the balcony railing, the links in his silver chain jingling a bit as he moved. “They came to us from White Harbor. From Barrowton. From Fairmarket. From King’s Landing. From North to South, East to West. They died protecting everyone in Westeros. Men, women, and children who never knew them, nor will ever know them. It is up to us to remember them, our brothers… And we shall never see their like again.”

“And now their Watch has ended,” Jon called out solemnly with the rest of the crowd.

Maester Aemon nodded, moisture gathering in his sightless eyes. “And now their Watch has ended,” he echoed.

All was quiet as Sam gently led him down the steps and up to the nearest pyre. Accepting a torch from a nearby ranger, he passed it over to him. Maester Aemon lingered for a moment, then carefully tilted the flames down onto the pyre. Everyone else with torches followed suit, making sure to keep the flames hovering over the wood until hearty flames were crackling across the wood and catching onto the bodies. Black smoke soon filled the air, making it impossible to see clearly from one side of the courtyard to the other. Jon was standing with Olly and Edd since Sam was helping Maester Aemon, but he did his best to try to find Sam in the crowd anyway. His friends’ cheerful optimism was probably the only thing that could keep him from sinking into grief right now.

However, it wasn’t Sam’s eyes he ended up locking onto from across the smoky haze. Instead, it was the eyes of the Red Woman, Melisandre. She gazed at him, intrigued, not even caring that he was fully aware of her staring.

It took everything Jon had not to shudder as he averted his eyes. Whatever Melisandre wanted with him, he wanted nothing to do with it. She could believe whatever she liked about prophecies and the Lord of Light, just so long as she kept him out of it. Still… something told him he was still being watched, but not just by Melisandre.

He looked around anxiously, trying to pinpoint where it was exactly the second set of staring eyes was coming from. It wasn’t until he glanced up at the upper walkways that he found the culprit.

Lyaella Snow had slipped out of the sick bay so quietly no one else there had even noticed her yet. She sitting at the edge of the railing in front of Maester Aemon’s workroom, her feet dangling off the edge as she leaned her head against her dragon Sōnar’s side. Sōnar was content with simply nuzzling the little girl affectionately with her snout, but aside from a few absent-minded pats, Lyaella otherwise ignored the dragon. Her full attention was on Jon, but he couldn’t determine what she was thinking. She was too far away for him to make out her facial expressions.

Still, she tensed when she saw he noticed her staring, and politely averted her eyes to look back at the funeral proceedings. Jon didn’t look away from her though. He watched, confused, when a few second later she chanced a second peek out at him from the corner of her eye, only to slap her hand over her mouth to suppress a small gasp. Bending her head guiltily, she swung her legs back onto the walkway and hurriedly stood up, motioning Sōnar to stick close to her as she tiptoed back into the sick bay. No one there aside from Jon seemed aware that she’d left, let alone been watching at all.

Jon shook his head. Strange girl, Lyaella Snow. Very strange. Whatever was up with her, he only hoped it would be sorted out soon.


	5. The Direwolf of Meereen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, dear readers!
> 
> I hope you all had a great start to the new decade! It's 2020, everyone! A new year, a new decade, a new start! Especially for me! I have yet to start my new internship, but it should happen any day now. I'm also going to be meeting with my college screenwriting teacher later today for a possible freelance job doing artwork for his website and his soon-to-be-published novel. I hope he hires me! Keep your fingers crossed for me, everyone! Lol! As far as the other freelance client goes, I haven't heard anything from them yet. I plan to email them shortly after my meeting tomorrow and find out if they're still interested in hiring me for another project. If not, oh well. At least I still have the internship itself to fall back on in the meantime.
> 
> Now, onto the news regarding this chapter. Finally, we return to Torrhen's POV! I'm sure lots of you have been excited to see things from his perspective for awhile now and to see how things will go regarding his first meeting with Dany. All I can really say for now regarding this chapter is... things would be boring if everything worked out well right away. I'm not saying anything else! Read the chapter and see for yourselves how Torrhen's arrival in Meereen plays out, lol! :D
> 
> In other news, the current stats for this story is 70 comments, 148 kudos, 36 bookmarks, and 3234 hits! The story is truly kicking off now, lol! And I'm thrilled that we reached the comment goal this time! 70 comments all together! Woohoo! I'm so, so happy! I personally thank each and everyone single person who reviewed Chapter 4 for contributing to the comment goal count. Thank you! I think we can go ahead with a slightly easier comment count goal this time as a reward! How does 85 comments this time sound to all of you? That's only fifteen comments that I'm asking for! Not that many at all! Come on, you guys can do it! Let's make it to 85 comments!
> 
> I think I've said everything that I needed to. So, onto the story itself! Enjoy the new chapter! And please comment when you're done!
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> \- Elphaba818

Jorah’s stomach was in knots as he marched through the winding corridors of the Great Pyramid of Meereen. How Barristan Selmy had obtained that royal pardon from Robert Baratheon was anyone’s guess, but the Lord Commander of the queensguard was one of the most honorable men Jorah Mormont had ever met. There was no way he hadn’t already told their queen the truth.

A thousand thoughts were running through his mind as he contemplated how he could explain his actions to his queen when they had first met. What could he say that could make her understand? He’d been a different man back then… He’d wanted to go home… He’d wanted to be with his family… He hadn’t known what a good person she truly was…

Daenerys was a good woman, and an even better queen. She’d be angry, but she’d understand. Please, _please_ let her understand!

He turned the corner and dipped under the archway leading into the audience chamber. The Unsullied guards on duty almost seemed to grip their spears even tighter than usual as he passed them, and their eyes followed his every move through the thin slit of their helmets without so much as blinking. It was unnerving, their abrupt change in behavior around him considering only a few hours ago these exact same guards had nodded politely to him when leaving a small council meeting, but Jorah forced himself to show no fear. Their anger was understandable. They were loyal to their queen: Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains. A betrayal against her was a betrayal against them. But Daenerys would convince them that he was still a good man. Everything was going to be just fine.

Speaking of Daenerys, she was a vision of loveliness, just like always. Dressed in one of her finest white silk dresses and silver hair fixed in one of its elaborate braided up-dos, she sat regally upon the black ebony bench she used as her throne at the top of the marble stairs, hands folded gracefully upon her lap. Barristan stood on the first landing below her to the left, his expression quite firm. To her right was Grey Worm, his helmet tucked under his arm and his eyes like fire. Missandei stood a few steps behind their queen, genuine sadness marring her face. Their expressions pained the old bear greatly, but not nearly as much as the wound he felt as he noted the look on Daenerys’ face.

She was impassive, face like stone. Not even the echoing of his footsteps as he slowly climbed up the steps only to be immediately barred by Barristan and Grey Worm upon nearing the first landing could make her budge.

“Why did Robert the Usurper pardon you?”

Jorah tensed at her tone. It was neither harsh, nor kind. Just frank and to the point. “If… If we could speak alone—”

“No. You will explain this to me _here._ Explain how a man who was sentenced to death by the Warden of the North, best friend to the Usurper himself, was decreed a royal pardon and promised safe return to Westeros.”

He thickly swallowed. This was not good. “Who do you think sent this information to Meereen?” he asked. “Who profits by turning us against each other? That’s what it is happening now. Tywin Lannister wants you to hate me.”

Daenerys was unfazed. “The pardon was not signed by Tywin Lannister. It was signed by Robert Baratheon himself. _The same year we met.”_

Jorah bit his tongue. It was impossible for him to talk his way around that fact.

“Tell me honestly, Jorah Mormont, was this document forged?”

“…No, it was not.”

“Then tell me why you were pardoned.”

Heaviness fell over him. He fought the urge to look down at his feet. “I sent letters to Robert’s spymaster, Varys.”

Daenerys’ lips pinched tight, her eyes cold. Jorah had grown accustomed to seeing that intense gaze from his queen ever since she found the strength to stand up to her wretched brother Viserys… but never had he seen it directed at him. “What was discussed in these letters?” she asked, slowly.

Jorah stiffened. It took all the willpower he had to answer her. “Information.”

“What information?”

“When you and Viserys arrived in Pentos… how he and Illyrio arranged your marriage to Khal Drogo… when you were married… when Viserys himself died…”

Every revelation seemed to make the muscles in her face grow tauter and tauter. She didn’t so much as blink. “And what _else?”_

He winced and didn’t reply. One didn’t have to be smart to know what she meant, but even so, he was the only in the room who did. His queen never talked about this, hence why Barristan, Missandei, and Grey Worm glanced towards her momentarily with questioning looks. She was so focused on him, she didn’t even notice.

“What _else?”_ she repeated, her voice low and dangerous. “What _else_ did you reveal in your letters?”

He sighed and let his eyes wander. He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Looking back, he couldn’t believe he had revealed what he did, and he couldn’t fault her for being angry.

“You told them, didn’t you?” she hissed, fire in her eyes. “About _him…_ about _Rhaego.”_

“Khaleesi—”

 _“Don’t_ call me that. Yes or no?”

The others were still confused. The name Rhaego meant nothing to them. In all honesty, Jorah was probably the only one still alive aside from Daenerys herself that knew who Rhaego even was. It only made the truth all that more unforgivable. “Yes.”

Silence. Complete silence. One could hear a pin drop, it was so silent.

The queen ever-so slowly stood up and descended down the steps towards him. Every step she took seemed to echo throughout the large, open room. “That wine merchant tried to poison me, because of your information.”

“I stopped you from drinking his wine.”

“Because you _knew_ it was poisoned.”

“I suspected.”

She stopped directly in front of him. Her lower lip was quivering, she was so angry. But Jorah had been in his queens’ service for four years now. He knew her better than anyone, the only exception being possibly Missandei. To everyone else here, she was simply angry, and rightfully so. To him, though… the ways her eyes were shining, how the muscles in her throat were tensing… she wasn’t just mad. She was fighting back tears of grief.

Grief for her _son._

“You _betrayed_ me… from the first. You betrayed _him.”_

Hearing those words broke whatever resolve he had left. He fell to his knees in front of her. “Forgive me,” he begged. “I… I never meant… _Please, Khaleesi…”_

But Daenerys’ eyes didn’t so much as flicker down at him. She simply swallowed and kept her eyes fixed on the intricate murals lining the walls next to the archway leading out to the main corridors. “You sold my secrets to the people who killed my father—”

“I have _served_ you—”

“—butchered my brother Rhaegar’s children—”

 _“—fought_ for you—”

“—stole my family’s throne — my family’s _legacy—”_

 _“—protected_ you—”

“—forced me to live on the run, like a dog—”

“—I stopped that wine merchant —— I protected _Rhaego_ from—”

_SLAP!_

Despite being a seasoned warrior, no amount of hard training could have made Jorah fast enough to dodge the slap across his cheek. Missandei’s lips parted slightly as she gaped at the queen’s actions. Barristan flinched slightly and blinked repeatedly, taken aback. Grey Worm appeared unmoved, his lifetime of training with the Unsullied having taught him how to hide his emotions, but Jorah had known the man for over a year now. The way his fingers tightened for a half-second around his helmet meant he too was shocked. Their reactions meant nothing, though. It was Daenerys herself that Jorah focused on. Her beautiful violet eyes, normally shining with warmth and kindness when speaking to him, were narrowed into thin slits, the fire he’d come to love in her gaze blazing straight through his soul.

“Don’t—” she hissed _“—ever_ —— say —— his —— name —— again.”

“K-Khaleesi—”

 _“Don’t_ call me that. And _don’t_ say his name. You… You have no _right_ to say his name. You have no right to ask me for _forgiveness.”_

It was as though she had plunged a knife into his heart. He didn’t blame her for her fury. She had every right to be angry. But still… did this one mistake mean nothing he had done to protect her _and_ her children right after he became fully devoted to her cause meant anything anymore?

He stopped Viserys from stealing her dragon eggs before he died, her new sons. That spineless little shit would traded them off for gold to buy the first army of sellswords he could find, and then surely would have gotten his throat slit by them the next morning when they realized just how stupid he really was… Had it not been for him, his queen wouldn’t have her beloved sons Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal. She would’ve never become the Mother of Dragons.

He protected her and Rhaego right before he was born. He had stopped that Dothraki bloodrider from harming her when she had pleaded for that horrible witch to help Khal Drogo with blood magic — a mistake on her part, certainly, trusting that awful woman, but he protected her from that man. And the stress of the fight itself caused her to go into premature labor.

He… He had _spared_ her the pain of seeing what Mirri Maz Duur’s petty vengeance caused Rhaego to become upon his birth. Just thinking about that… _thing_ that had been her son — an innocent little babe — was still enough to make him sick. Even so, he protected his queens’ gentle heart by burying her son before she awoke. She had fallen apart just from hearing his description of her little boy, her little prince. Had she seen him for herself…

He had turned his back on returning to Westeros because of her. For so many years, he had dreamed about going home, returning to the North. Not to resume his lordship of Bear Island, but just to go _home,_ see his family. Reconcile with his father and apologize to him for disgracing him. Disgracing their House and forcing him to take the black because of his mistakes… but then he’d met her. This incredible young woman and queen. The _rightful_ queen. She was the closest thing he had ever had to a daughter, and the only person he’d ever met who was actually worthy of sitting on the Iron Throne.

But none of that mattered anymore. The fact that he had betrayed her and almost inadvertently caused her to be in danger was the only thing she could focus on.

He was brought back to the present as Daenerys closed her eyes. It was only for a moment, but when she opened them again, her regal mask had returned. “Any other man would have you executed, Jorah Mormont,” she declared, still refusing to look down at him. “But you… you I do not want you in my city. Dead or alive.”

Jorah stared at her. It was a good thing he was already on his knees. If he hadn’t been, he would lost the strength in his legs. The sound of the wind starting to blow a bit stronger outside was literally the only thing he focus on, though he couldn’t understand why he was even taking note of that.

“Go back to your _masters_ in King’s Landing. Collect your pardon, if you can.”

His vision blurred, tears welling up in his eyes. Despite how his legs were shaking, he slowly rose. “D-Daenerys, _please-”_

He tried to take her hand, to squeeze it pleadingly, but Barristan reached for the hilt of his sword and Grey Worm dropped his helmet and drew his knife. Daenerys whipped her hands away from him and signaled them not to interfere. She still refused to meet his eyes.

“Don’t _ever_ presume to touch me again, let alone speak my name or Rhaego’s. You have until midday to collect your things and leave Meereen. If you’re found in the city past that time, I’ll have your head thrown into Slaver’s Bay.”

The tears trickled down his cheeks, but Daenerys still wouldn’t look at him. Even so, the wind sounded like it was howling now out beyond the windows. Bad day, no doubt. And it seemed to match her mood.

“Go. _Now.”_

Jorah stared at her, silent with disbelief. Exile. That was his punishment. _Again._ He wanted to say something —— anything —— to make her understand, but he wasn’t stupid. That look on her face, that cold, emotionless mask… her threats weren’t idle. She would do exactly as she said if he didn’t leave now. Moreover, she chose the perfect punishment, too. Those who believe death is the worst possible fate didn’t know what it felt like to be alone. Exile was a thousand times worse. Cast off on your own, with no support, no friends, no one but yourself for company. Alone and isolated… nothing was worse than that.

With a heavy heart, he bowed his head in acceptance and descended back down the steps. No one said anything as he silently left the room. He had to pack. It’d be midday in less than two hours. His life wasn’t worth much of anything if he couldn’t serve Daenerys, but still, it was his life.

He was halfway across the room when he abruptly stopped. One of the decorative torches lining the walls of the chamber had caught his eye.

“Did you not hear me the first time?” Daenerys called out, her tone now quite sharp. “I told you to leave.”

Jorah never thought a day would come when he would disobey a direct order from his queen, but still, he disregarded her. Something about that torch seemed… _off._ Almost like its flames were jumping up and down too much. Every instinct in his body told him something was wrong, so instead of heading out of the room, Jorah turned and approached the torch.

“Ser Jorah, what are you doing? Go.”

The Unsullied guard on duty close to the torch turned to him sharply and raised the tip of his spear in warning, but still, Jorah paid him no mind. He was too busy studying the torch himself to even notice the guard. He had been quite certain before that the flames were moving too much a few seconds ago, but now, it seemed like they were behaving normally again. He tilted his head, puzzled. Had it simply been a figment of his imagination? Was the heartbreak of being forced out of Daenerys’ service causing him to see thing?

“This is your last warning. Leave now, or I’ll have the Unsullied throw you out of the city themselves.”

The Unsullied warrior gripped his spear even tighter. Jorah knew how deadly the Unsullied truly were with their spears, so he nearly turned to leave again. Just then, the torch jostled. Not enough for Daenerys and the others up on the platform to notice, but enough that Jorah knew for a fact he saw it this time. Moreover, the guard saw it, too. The torch… it was _shaking._

“Have it your way, then. _Dovaogēdy, nādīnagon ser Iōrah—”_

“Get down from the platform! Now!”

His queen seemed to have forgotten what it was like to be yelled at and have people demand things of her after being the one in power and giving orders for the past few years. She jerked at his words, blinking in surprise.

“I beg your pardon, Ser Jorah? You have no right to—”

“Don’t argue! Get down, _now!”_ Jorah cried.

“My queen!” yelled the guard. “Listen to him! I think there’s—”

He was cut off as the whole room started to tremor. It wasn’t all that bad at first, but it was still strong enough that everyone there could feel it, including those up on the platform. Daenerys and Missandei both glanced down at their feet, puzzled. Barristan and Grey Worm though overcame their slight startle much faster. Within a split second, they realized what it was that Jorah and the other guard were warning them about. Nodding to one another, Barristan seized Daenerys’ wrist and began dragging her down the steps while Grey Worm did the same with Missandei. Ignoring all past resentment towards Ser Jorah in light of what they realized was about to happen, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard and the Commander of the Unsullied made no objections when they saw him and several other Unsullied guards hurry to the base of the steps.

“Ser Barristan!”

“Grey Worm?”

“This way, your grace! Hurry!”

“We explain later, Missandei! We must—”

Grey Worm was cut off by the sudden screeches of three terrified creatures. Large creatures by the sound of it, ones that could fly judging by how the flapping of wings resounded over the roaring wind. Everyone there knew what those creatures were, but none more-so than Daenerys. She sharply jerked her hand out of Barristan’s grip and snapped around to the nearest window overlooking the city.

“My children…” she breathed, worried and confused. “Drogon—?”

The whole room violently rocked, and had it not been for Barristan swiftly wrapping an arm her waist, their queen would have fallen backwards over the edge of the steps. Daenerys didn’t even get the chance to thank him before sharp tremors jolted the room a second time. She nearly fell over, but Barristan kept her stable. The whole pyramid was shaking, and out in the city, they could all hear people screaming in terror as buildings collapsed. But the screeching of the dragons outweighed the screams of the citizens. A flash of movement from one of the windows revealed that they were flying wildly over the city, confused and terrified by the unexpected disaster.

Earthquake… Jorah had personally never experienced a powerful one before, but he’d heard enough horror stories in his life. Especially those that struck major cities. Judging by how particles of sand were slowly drifting down from the high ceiling, this one in particular was _bad._

“Protect the queen!” Barristan shouted. “Get to the hall!”

No one argued. If the ceiling collapsed, they’d all be crushed to death by marble and then buried in sand. There weren’t any protective surfaces to duck under in the pyramid passageways, but at least out there they could escort the queen to another chamber, one where she would be better protected. Jorah was lucky that none of the Unsullied or Barristan objected as he joined them in forming a protective ring around Daenerys and Missandei as they hurried down the last few steps. In light of current events, Daenerys’ previous decision to exile him meant nothing unless she survived this unexpected disaster.

The Unsullied guards all kept their shields raised over Daenerys’ head as they all did their best to hurry across the room. It was difficult though, ignoring how the floor was rattling underneath them with every step. Missandei in particular had a very hard time standing upright, and when a particularly strong tremor made the floor jolt unexpectedly, she tripped over herself and fell.

“Missandei!” Daenerys cried, kneeling down low. “Missandei, are you all right?”

“Y-Yes, your grace,” said the interpretor, trembling fearfully as she struggled to stand. “Don’t worry about me. I’m — argh! — I’m fine.” She was standing up fine, but clutching her left shoulder with her opposite hand, painful tears streaming down her face. Grey Worm didn’t waste any time. Dropping his helmet all together, he scooped Missandei up bridal style.

“Grey Worm—!”

“You hurt. I carry you.”

There was no time to argue about it, not when they all heard the terrified screams from the citizen outside become twice as loud as the distinct rumble of a building collapsing echoed through the air. Sucking in a breath, Missandei nodded silently and allowed Grey Worm to support her.

They made it out into the hall with only minimal difficulty after that and hurried into the closet chamber. Luckily, there was a large, sturdy marble table inside, as well as many open archway windows that stretched from the floor and almost all the way up to the ceiling.

“Hurry, your grace,” Barristan urged, he and the rest of the men steering her towards it as Grey Worm lingered a few steps behind with Missandei. “Get beneath this, please! For your own protection!”

“Missandei, first. She’s injured.”

“Your safety is all that matters! Please, crawl under it!”

“What type of queen am I if I were to stay safe when my friend is both hurt and would be left in danger?! Missandei fir—”

Daenerys was cut off when the pyramid itself start to groan from somewhere high up above. Rather loudly, too. They all froze. Despite how much the earth was still rattling without respite, the groaning and creaking of the pyramid seemed to happen in slow motion to their ears. Jorah’s heart dropped into his stomach as his throat bobbed. The pyramid… it was going to collapse! There was nothing any of them could do to stop it… but he’d be damned if he’d left his queen die because of this natural disaster! Without thinking twice, he seized her wrist and ignored her protests entirely as he forcibly shoved her under the table, Grey Worm following his example by doing the same with Missandei. They just barely managed to get them both under there before the entire pyramid shuddered, then almost seemed to violently totter back and forth.

Missandei gasped, terrified, and Daenerys nearly hit her head on the underside of the tabletop as she jumped, eyes bulging and lips parted. The others didn’t have the luxury of allowing themselves to be afraid, though. They pressed themselves up against the open areas of the table, creating a human shield to protect the two women. Jorah squeezed his eyes shut, keeping one hand clutching the edge of the table and the other shielding his head. There was no point in looking for his own form of shelter. All that mattered was making sure Daenerys survived. If he were to look for shelter himself instead of doing everything in his power to protect Daenerys from whatever part of the pyramid was crunching high above them, then he was no different from the man he was four years ago when he first met his queen: the one willing to sacrifice an innocent young girl for his own self-interest.

Wait, crunched? Sand didn’t crunch. Was that… _metal?_

The thought had barely occurred to him before there was a sharp crack, and the pyramid jolted harshly as something obviously large and heavy further up seemed to snap off and partially strike the building. The ceiling rattled, distinct chucks of sand and reinforced marble crumbling slightly before a small portion of the overhead beams near the windowed wall and the wall itself caved in. Missandei screamed, and even Daenerys shrieked as the enormous gold harpy statue that had always been situated at the pyramid’s peak partially knocked into their structure. Sand and marble flew everywhere as it went tumbling to the ground. It was a good thing the men were shielding Daenerys and Missandei, because some smaller chunks of marble whacked into them as they broke off. Jorah groaned as one piece of debris somewhat bigger than the other bits knocked into his arm.

Strangely enough though, there was a bright flash of white light as the golden harpy hurdled past their floor, and Jorah and the others all had to turn away and cover their eyes for a few seconds until it vanished. Right when it did, all the shaking and rattling seemed to die off, and all was silent in the Great Pyramid. The same couldn’t be said about the rest of the city. People outside were still screaming and crying in the aftermath of the catastrophe, buildings that had suffered structural damage were either groaning or still partially collapsing, and way overhead the dragons were still screeching in terror.

“My children!” cried Daenerys, worried. She hurriedly tried pushing her way past the guards and crawl out, but Barristan gently held up a hand.

“Just a moment, your grace. The room is very unstable now. We must all be very careful as we escort you out of here.”

Daenerys looked like she wanted to protest, but Jorah, Grey Worm, and the other Unsullied all wordlessly nodded in agreement. One by one, they carefully stood up and assisted in helping her and Missandei out from below the table. Once again, Grey Worm personally assisted the Naathi interpreter, but instead of carrying her this time, he wrapped one arm securely around her waist to allow her to lean into him as they walked. The journey across the room was a slow process, as none of them were willing to hurry and risk the overall stability of the partially damaged floor by stepping down wrong and causing their mostly undamaged area to crumble away. Luckily, nothing of the sort appeared to happen, and they were all able to safely exit without any mishaps whatsoever.

Waiting for them out in the hall were numerous other Unsullied warriors, having been stationed elsewhere in the pyramid when everything happened. Daenerys looked quite a mess in the aftermath of the disaster. Her white dress was all wrinkled and so dusty it was bordering on gray, and her usually flawless crown of braids was quite disheveled and untidy now. That didn’t matter to the soldiers, though. To them, she was still Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons and the Breaker of Chains, and they immediately knelt down on one knee.

“I am most relieved you are all unharmed, but please rise. There is much to be done in light of what has just happened,” Daenerys declared. Her tone was somewhat shaky from shock, but she was their queen. It was her duty to assume leadership and be strong for everyone. “Missandei is injured. Grey Worm? Please escort to her chambers and have her rest. I shall need someone here to fetch a maester from in the city to check her over, as well as any other men in your ranks who might also be hurt.”

“At once, my queen.”

“I would also ask that you send any able-bodied men into the city itself to help the people, freedmen and former masters alike. Have them clear out debris, search for survivors in the wreckage. Escort the injured to the sickhouses for treatment… and have the deceased brought to the Temple of the Graces. Funerary arrangements shall be made at a later date.”

Grey Worm nodded. Passing the orders along to his men in a rush of High Valyrian, the Unsullied turned and bowed respectfully to Daenerys one last time before swiftly turning and marching away to carry out her orders. Grey Worm did the same, keeping a firm hold on Missandei as he carefully led her down the hall to her personal bedchambers. Missandei didn’t seem to mind. She still clutched at her shoulder, but she leaned her head softly against his side as they slowly walked down the hall.

“Ser Jorah.”

Jorah stood at attention, hoping rising inside him. Had his queen forgiven him? Had she changed her mind regarding his apparent exile.

He realized right away that he wrong. She wore her queenly mask so well, one wouldn’t know she had been involved in an earthquake just now at all. She stared straight ahead of her at a crack in the wall, refusing to turn her head and address him directly. “I know I said before that I expect you out of my city by midday, however… considering the recent circumstances, I shall change that time to dusk.”

“K-Khaleesi—”

“Do not speak. I appreciate your warning about the earthquake, and for that, I shall allow you a few more hours to go visit a maester for your arm. I shall inform the Unsullied that they are not to harm you past midday so long as you are there. If in any event you cannot be seen by a maester prior to sundown, the Unsullied will have permission to rush a maester directly to you and then escort you personally out of the city. However, if you are found elsewhere in Meereen or return to the city after sunset, my prior warning still stands. Your head will be thrown into Slaver’s Bay.”

Jorah’s lower lip trembled, but he bowed his head gratefully. It killed him that Daenerys couldn’t find it in her heart forgive him even after what had just happened. Still, it was nice she was providing him with more time to leave. His arm had a nasty cut where that piece of debris had struck it, and now that he was focusing on it, he could definitely feel a dull throb ebbing from it. Allowing him the time for a maester to check on it was incredibly kind.

“Be on your way, Ser Jorah. Ser Barristan? Could you escort me to my chambers? I’d go myself, but I’m worried they might have been damaged in the destruction. Or the way there might not be safe.”

“I could go first and check for you, your grace.”

“Thank you, but I must call for my children right away. Calm them down. They sounded quite frightened by everything, and if my chambers are safe enough, I need access to my balcony straight away. I don’t want them accidentally hurting people.”

“I understand, your grace. This way.”

Without another word, Daenerys turned sharply on her heel and marched down the corridor with her head held high, Barristan dutifully falling into step behind her. Not once did she glance back at Jorah or falter in her steps.

Jorah was left alone. His heart ached, but there was nothing more he could do. Daenerys still didn’t want to even _look_ at him, let alone listen to his apologies. It would take a miracle on his part to get her attention long enough to listen to him again. He sighed at the thought, and then headed sullenly down the hall to his solar. To his relief, the only damage were a few pieces of furniture knocked over and a handful of decorative pots shattered on the floor. The room itself was still in condition, so collecting his belongings took no time at all. He didn’t have much. Years of exile prior to first meeting and pledging his service to his queen had taught him to travel lightly. Aside from necessities such as his sword, armor, spare clothes, and medicinal herbs and bandages, there was nothing else he had. He simply needed to purchase a horse for himself and a few days worth of food prior to leaving the city and he’d be fine.

Easier said than done, though. Upon leaving the pyramid, he found that the overall destruction of the city was far worse than it had appeared high above. So many buildings had collapsed, leaving great piles of debris covering the streets. The citizens were still in shock. Those that had luckily gotten through the earthquake unscathed were either searching for survivors in the wreckage, or helping the Unsullied gather those that were injured or deceased to the nearby sickhouses and the Temple of the Graces. But the fallen harpy statue… that was a project all on its own. Jorah hadn’t seen it up in the Great Pyramid, but the statue hadn’t just damaged the pyramid alone. Two other buildings had been left in shambles as landed on them, and it looked like many had been crushed to death. Those who had managed to run out of the way of the impending doom still ended up getting injured or partially trapped by the flying debris, and many were working to dig them out. It was such a horrible disaster. Meereen would definitely need a long time to recover from this mess.

Jorah stopped to figure out which way to go to find the nearest sickhouse, but a low groan in particular reached his ears amid all the shifting rubble and sobbing people.

A child’s groan.

* * *

It was hot. Blazing hot. Sitting bundled up in front of a fireplace back in Winterfell on the warmest Winter day imaginable couldn’t compare to how hot he was now.

Torrhen struggled to open his eyes. He was lying flat on his back on what felt like a hard, gravelly ground. He was staring up at the sky, bluer than he’d ever seen it before compared to how gray he was used to it being, and the clouds perfectly fluffy and white. In the back of his mind, he vaguely registered that his left ankle was throbbing dully in the confines of his boot, and he felt hot. _Way_ too hot. The longer he laid there trying to get his bearings, the more he broke out into a heat-induced sweat through his long-sleeved navy-blue shirt, leather jerkin, and pewter gray cloak. It was so bad, it was enough to make his head pound in tempo with his pulse, drowning out all other sounds in the nearby vicinity.

Still, he just stayed sprawled out on the ground for a few moments. It was too hot to move, and he needed to sort out his memories anyway. What happened to him? The last thing he could firmly remember was seeing Lyaella and Sōnar running through the trees to him and Shadow before the fire circles from Lady Kinvara’s spell did… whatever it was they did with that flash of light. Lyaella had nearly reached him, too. They’d been only inches away from each other before that flash, and then… poof. He had no memories after that. His fire flickered twice already in the past twenty-four hours. It never happened twice in one day before… Had it flickered again? Was that why he couldn’t remember anything?

It took all his energy to sit up. The simple movement combined with the unnaturally bright sunlight made the drumming in his head ten times worse. He snapped his eyes shut and brought a hand up to his brow. Stupid fire flicker. Headaches sometimes happened after they happened. Not always, only sometimes, and not often or bad enough to make that old windbag Maester Marlon consider it a real symptom. Stupid oaf. He needed ice. Without any pain relief medicines, pressing ice and hardened snow clumps against his head was the only thing that helped when he occasionally got these headaches.

He groaned and massaged his temples. “Lyaella…? My head’s pounding. Can you find me some ice?”

Despite how he still couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his heartbeat drilling through his head, Torrhen still expected to hear his shy twin sister whimper a bit before mumbling out an affirmative. To his surprise, that didn’t happen. Had she not heard him?

“Lyaella, did you hear me? Get me some ice. Please.”

Nothing. Still nothing. She must’ve passed out after that white light flashed.

“Ugh… Hey, Shadow? Sōnar? Get Lya for me…”

But there was no familiar rumble or soft panting. There was just… _nothing._

Ignoring the consistent pulse in his head, Torrhen slowly opened his eyes again, shielding them this time from the harsh sunlight until they fully adjusted. To his disbelief, he wasn’t in the Winterfell godswood anymore. He was pretty sure he wasn’t even in the North itself anymore. It looked like he was in a back alley of some sort, a very sandy and dust-covered alleyway with a gravel-covered ground. There was no snow to be seen anywhere, and the buildings in his nearby vicinity looked nothing like the gray stonework of Winterfell castle or the simple log cabins in Wintertown. No, these buildings were more of a neutral beige color, and they were made up of something else. Something earthy, yet smooth. Whatever the material was, he’d never seen it before. Oddly enough, one of the buildings looked partially destroyed, as its roof had collapsed and a huge pile of debris was lying right at its base. He himself was sitting near the wall of another building right across from it. No one else seemed to be here.

It was jarring, how different everything here was. Jarring enough to distract him from his headache. This place was _definitely_ not Winterfell. Where on earth was he? More importantly… _where_ was Lyaella? Where was Sōnar and Shadow?

“Lya?” he called out, slowly rising. “Are you there? Sha— argh!”

He fell to the ground as sharp pain shot through his left ankle. It happened so fast and was so unexpected, it made his eyes water. It hurt so much!

Torrhen waited a few seconds until the pain gradually pandered off, then tried to stand again, slowly this time. Sure enough, the moment he put weight on his left foot, pain exploded through his ankle.

 _“Ow!”_ he yelped, falling again. Gritting his teeth as unwanted tears streamed down his cheeks, he scooted himself backwards on the ground to lean up against the wall. Again, he waited for the pain to fade away a bit, but instead of standing again, he hesitantly touched his ankle through the leather of his boot. He sucked in a breath when his ankle instantly throbbed. It hurt from even the slightly bit of pressure. Fuck, what if it was broken?

Torrhen shook his head at the thought and stretched out his foot. The throbbing in his head didn’t hold a candle to this new pain. What happened to cause this injury anyway? He wracked his brains, trying to remember everything that happened prior to arriving… wherever this place was. It took him a minute, but then he remembered. Curse his luck in tripping over the roots of that stupid tree back in the godswood! This was bad. Really bad. No one was around, and he couldn’t even stand. He needed his sister. He needed their direwolf brother and dragon sister.

“Lyaella? Lyaella, are you there? I can’t stand! I need your help!”

There was no reply. No quiet murmur agreeing to help him or a desperate call of his name from some ways off. It was completely silent.

“Sōnar…? Can you hear me? Are you out there?”

Nothing. No flapping of wings. No warbling reply. Just nothing.

“Shadow! Shadow, come on! Answer me, _please!”_

He listened, but he heard nothing. It was no use. His twin sister and their pets weren’t out there. He was completely—

A low whine suddenly resounded from beyond the alleyway, followed by the trotting of soft paws. Torrhen’s heart leapt in his chest at the familiar sounds. He wasn’t alone after all! Thank all the gods out there! Moments later, the black furry head of his direwolf poked around the corner from the alleyway’s entrance, his lute still clenched in his jaws. The moment Shadow spotted him sitting there, he bounded up to him, his tail whipping back and forth excitedly the whole time. As soon as he was close enough to his boy, the wolf dropped the instrument and all but tackled Torrhen to the ground, smothering his face in happy licks.

Torrhen laughed, trying to both happily run his hands through Shadow’s black fur and shove him off him at the same time. “Shadow! I’m… I’m happy to see you too, boy —— yes, yes I love the licks, but let me—” he abruptly turned his head, spitting in disgust. _“Ugh!_ Gross, Shadow! You got your drool in my mouth!”

Shadow reluctantly stepped off him as he kept spitting away his wolf germs, but Torrhen kept one hand scratching him behind the ears so he’d know he wasn’t really angry. It took almost a full minute until he finally stopped and wiped away the excess drool on his chin.

“Ugh, disgusting… Shadow, next time you wanna tackle me to ground and lick me like that, avoid the mouth! That was vile!”

Shadow only wagged his tail and butted his head back under Torrhen’s hands in reply. Torrhen couldn’t help but chuckle and gave him his desired pets and scratches. Shameless beast. Wasn’t even sorry about his actions.

Eventually, Shadow got his fill of pets and broke away from Torrhen to approach the discarded instrument. Collecting the boy’s lute between his teeth, he trotted back up to his young master and dropped it on his lap.

Torrhen grinned and patted his head. “Good boy, Shadow. You kept my lute safe. Thank you.”

The direwolf panted, pink tongue lolling off to the side in what looked like a happy wolfish smile.

“Okay, look buddy. I woke up here all alone. I hurt my ankle, and my head really hurts, too. We gotta find help, but we also gotta find Lyaella and Sōnar. Have you seen them?”

Shadow simply stared at him, red eyes blinking twice.

Torrhen sighed. “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ We’ll have to keep an eye out for them, I guess. Meantime, we gotta find help, and we need to figure out where we are. Can you help me up?”

Without and further commands, Shadow briskly moved behind Torrhen and began pushing his back with his furry head. Torrhen took advantage of the additional leverage by putting both his palms flat against the wall of the building next to them to hoist himself up, and as soon as was up high enough to put weight down on both his feet, he tucked his left foot underneath him, balancing on his right foot instead. Shadow promptly returned to his left side and collected the lute again, acting as support for the boy to keep balancing on as soon as they reached the end of the alley and he ran out of wall to support him. They took an incredibly long time reaching the alley’s entrance, what with Torrhen having to hop along slowly on only one foot and occasionally falling down and needing Shadow’s assistance in rising again. But after four falls, they finally reached the exit.

Upon seeing what was going on out on the main streets, Torrhen couldn’t help but blink. As he predicted, he was certainly _not_ in the North anymore. Northerners always had pale skin and wore thick furs and dull, dreary clothing. They did everything they could to keep their blood as pure as possible by mixing it with only other Northerners to maintain the blood of the First Men. They didn’t want to mix it with those of Andal descent, which meant they hardly ever married anyone from outside the North. But everyone he saw now was as far from any Northerner he had ever seen. The people here were of different skin colors. Some were pale, some were bronze-colored, and some were dark-skinned. They wore airy clothing to combat the heat, a few even wearing shirts or dresses that were entirely sleeveless. And the colors they wore were all so _bright._ Yellows, blues, reds, orange… A perfect rainbow of bright colors, not at all like the dark, muted colors in the North. As far as he knew, he and Lyaella were the only Northerners out there who actually bent the rules on traditional Northern dress code by choosing to wear blue all the time. He wore long-sleeved navy-blue shirts, she wore ice blue dresses. Granted, the only reason they did that was because they were strictly forbidden from wearing the color combination of black and red together in accordance to House Targaryen, and they adamantly _refused_ to wear the colors of House Stark in anything aside from their favorite winter cloaks. They liked blue because it was their way of deliberately telling their damnable relatives to fuck off. If they were forced to live with the same people who were deliberately responsible for making them orphaned Snow bastards, then they would embrace that name. The name Snow meant Winter itself, so they wore wintry colors and added snowflake emblems to their cloak clasps, the embroidery on Lyaella’s dresses, and the mounts on his black basket-weave sword belt.

Still, these people didn’t seem to care at all what they looked like right now. Everyone looked to be in as state of panic. Screaming, shouting, crying… Some sort of disaster must’ve just happened, because buildings all across the street had either partially collapsed or were completely destroyed, and oddly enough, a humongous gold statue was sprawled out across the road. It too looked as though it had been destroyed and had accidentally caused the destruction of other buildings lining the street. So many people appeared to have been hurt in whatever happened, but those that were unharmed were trying to dig for survivors amongst all the wreckage. It was complete pandemonium.

Torrhen stood there quietly for a moment, too stunned by it all to move. “Woah, what a mess… Did a riot happen?” he mumbled. It had been a rhetorical question to himself, but Shadow pressed up closer against his legs, his ears flattening themselves against his furry head. The wolf didn’t know anymore than he did, but he was clearly on edge from all the commotion. Shadow made for a good protector for himself and Lyaella, but he was also more than that. He was their friend, their direwolf brother, their only connection to their father through House Stark that they were genuinely delighted to have. And now that the two of them had apparently landed dab smack in the middle of whatever city this was without any sign of his younger twin sister and their dragon sister, it was their job as the big brothers to find them. It didn’t matter that they had no idea where they were or that he himself was hurt and could barely stand without Shadow’s help. The four of them were all each other had. They were family. Family never gives up on family.

He took a deep breath for strength, then did his best to hop fully around the corner. It was so hard for Torrhen, staying close enough to the street buildings for extra support as he limped along. In addition to moving at a snails pace even with Shadow by his side, his headache was worsening from all the noise. He’d been too disoriented and confused when he first landed… wherever he was in history to take note of anything except his immediate surroundings, but now that he was up and moving around, he couldn’t ignore his sense of sound. With every scream or loud shift of rubble, tiny hammers drummed inside his skull. Were it not for the fact he had to hang onto to both Shadow and the walls to stand, he’d have both hands slammed over his ears to deafen the noise.

Some people hurried past on his left, a middle-aged couple in dust-covered clothes and shock etched on their faces. The woman carried a small, sobbing girl much younger than Torrhen was up against her chest, holding a rag of some sort against a deep gash on the child’s temple and whispered sweet soothing murmurs to her as they dodged around the boy and his wolf to keep going. Or at least, they tried to.

“Hey, excuse me!” Torrhen called out, limping as fast as he could after the small family and signaling Shadow to keep up. “I need help!”

The father yelled something back over his shoulder, but whatever it was sounded like an incomprehensible jumble. Was it because of his headache that he couldn’t understand him, or was all the noise around drowning out his words? Either way, he needed to get closer so the man could repeat himself.

“W-Wait up! Please!” Torrhen said, hopping along unsteadily to keep up with them. “I need your help! I need a maester, and I can’t find my sister!”

The woman was sobbing as she urged to husband to hurry, so he ignored Torrhen this time. Were it not for Shadow’s help, Torrhen never would have caught up with them. He grabbed the back of the man’s shirt to stop him from leaving yet again.

“Listen, I hurt my ankle! I need your—”

Without warning, the man abruptly turned and shoved Torrhen off him so hard, he lost his balance and fell over with a loud groan. The man paid no attention to his pain and started yelling at him wildly. But Torrhen couldn’t understand him. The language the man spoke… it wasn’t in the Common Tongue, and he’d never heard such a bizarre accent before. It was all gibberish to him. Torrhen stared up at him blankly through his pain. Did Lady Kinvara’s spell do more then send him back in time? Was he in some other world where no one spoke his language?

He had no time to mull over these questions because the man suddenly started yelling at him expectantly, looking for some sort of a reply. Torrhen quickly threw up his hands apologetically.

“S-Sorry! I don’t understand you!”

That wasn’t good enough for the man. He raised his fist as though to strike him, but Shadow dropped his lute and sprang forward, teeth bared and ready to defend. The man and his wife instantly backed away, fear in their eyes. Torrhen quickly stroked his fur to keep the wolf from attacking, but he didn’t call him off either. He wasn’t going to let Shadow hurt a man with a frightened wife and injured little girl, but he also wasn’t going to let him hit him when all he wanted was directions to a maester or if they’d seen any sign of Lyaella around. Language barriers didn’t matter, because the man seemed to understand the unspoken truce Torrhen was offering him. He swallowed thickly before turning and ushering his wife to hurry around the corner without another word.

Torrhen sighed irritably and maneuvered himself to sit up against the wall of a partially ruined house. “Thanks for the help. Now I’m on the ground again…”

Shadow collected his lute and paced up to him. Dropping the instrument onto his boys’ lap, he silently butted his head under Torrhen’s arm and began licking his face.

Torrhen snorted, running his fingers through the wolf’s thick black fur. “Don’t worry, pal. We’ll think of something.”

At that moment, a man came around the corner. A swordsman of some sort, judging by his armor and the sword at his hip. He carried a small knapsack with him, and unlike others in the city who were all completely panicking, he was relatively calm, and aside from his arm was bleeding a bit, he didn’t appear to be injured. The oddest thing though was that even though the other people he saw wandering around the streets were all slightly bronze-colored, this man’s skin was pale like his own. If Torrhen didn’t know better, he’d say the man looked Westerosi.

The moment the stranger saw him, he dropped his rucksack and hurried up to him, kneeling down to his level. “Are you all right, lad? Are you hurt?”

The Common Tongue. This stranger spoke the Common Tongue. And his _accent…_

“Your voice —— you’re from the North!”

The man blinked at him. Pausing momentarily to glance curiously at Shadow and his clothing, he soon nodded. “Aye, I’m a Northerner. You seem to be, too. Northern cloak and clothes, and if that’s not a direwolf, then I’m shocked.”

Torrhen’s hopes soared, tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying on his shoulders disappearing entirely. He wasn’t in some strange, alternate world with no hope of ever seeing Lyaella or Sōnar again. This was an unfamiliar place and some people might not speak his language, but it was still his world. And even though Northerner’s were all so prejudiced and distrustful of others, this man had no reason not to help him. Thank goodness he took so much after his father rather than his mother aside from his eyes. Had he inherited the obvious Targaryen feature of silver hair like Lyaella, there was no way this man would have ever stopped to help him.

“Can you help me? My ankle… It’s…”

“Can’t walk?” Torrhen nodded. “Not a problem. Give me your arm.”

Smiling appreciatively, Torrhen collected his lute and let the swordsman pull him up. He winced when he accidentally knocked his bad foot into the strangers’ leg.

“Easy, lad. No need to rush. Let’s get you to the sickhouse.”

“Thanks. C’mon, Shadow.”

Shadow rose and moved quietly behind them like a Shadow itself, and together, they slowly headed down the road.

“I appreciate your help, my lord. I could barely walk at all without hanging onto walls, and I didn’t know where to go, really.”

The man chuckled. “It’s no problem, really. But I’m no lord, lad. I’m… I’m just…” he trailed off, looking rather troubled for some reason.

Torrhen tilted his head, puzzled. “But your armor… it’s looks like what other Northern lords use. I thought…”

“I was a lord. Once. Now…” he sighed. “Just call me Ser if you need to address me.”

Torrhen’s breath hitched. This man… he was a Northerner, but was also an exiled knight. There were multiple reasons why people were forced to flee from Westeros, but knights were exceedingly rare in the North… Torrhen glanced around. The people in this city, they didn’t look like any Westerosi he’d ever seen before, and they apparently spoke an entirely different language. Was it possible he wasn’t in Westeros at all? Was this Essos? If so, then this man… could it be?

“Are you Jorah Mormont? The exiled knight?”

The man’s head whipped around to stare at him, lips parting a bit in surprise. “You know me?” he asked. Torrhen nodded. “I didn’t realize my past dishonor was still discussed in the North.”

It took all of Torrhen’s willpower to neutrally shrug. Thank goodness he and Lyaella were so good at playing Truth or Half-Truth. “I’ve heard stories here and then. The North remembers, after all.”

Ser Jorah chuckled. “Been a long time since I heard those words. Aye, that’s right.”

Torrhen couldn’t help but feel thrilled as he, Ser Jorah, and Shadow continued down the road. He had found his mother’s most faithful follower. The one who the history books say had had been the first to pledge his support to her in the earliest days of her reign. Although Torrhen preferred familiarizing himself with the stories regarding their father and Lyaella spent more time reading about their mother, the tales about Ser Jorah Mormont had always been some of his favorite parts to read in his mother’s adventures. He’d made mistakes both before he’d met his mother and after he’d joined her service, but Ser Jorah’s deeds throughout all the tales revealed he truly had been loyal and devoted to his queen. He’d protected her from countless dangers, and had even _died_ protecting her one last time during the War for the Dawn. And if that wasn’t enough to prove one’s loyalty and unwavering devotion for someone, then how about the fact that in addition to dying to protect his queen, Ser Jorah died protecting both of _them._ He was incredibly lucky to have stumbled across Ser Jorah upon arriving in the past.

There were so many things Torrhen wanted to ask the great knight, but before he could organize his thoughts and decide what he wanted to ask first, Ser Jorah turned and steered him into a sickhouse. The place was already jam packed with dozens upon dozens of injured citizens, and the maesters on duty were rushing themselves to hurry and treat patients as fast as possible. Ser Jorah and Torrhen were forced to wait at the end of the long queue of people all waiting to be seen, and due to how noisy it was at the front entrance, Torrhen was forced to hold all questions until they could be moved to the back. Despite how Shadow’s presence definitely made others in line scared and nervous even though the direwolf was sitting quietly by Torrhen’s feet and not bothering anyone, nobody was willing to let their party skip ahead. It took them hours to make it to the front and be seen by a maester.

Unlike stupid Maester Marlon who took great pleasure in being a crotchety old oaf, this maester didn’t speak the Common Tongue, but Ser Jorah knew the local language well enough to translate for Torrhen. A quick examination revealed that his ankle wasn't broken, just sprained. Torrhen was beyond relieved. Sprains took far less time to heal than broken bones.

“He says you should stay off it for the next few days,” Ser Jorah explained as the maester turned to examine his bloody arm. “Are you part of a trade ship from Westeros? I can go look for your people down by the docks, tell them where to find you.”

Torrhen tensed and shook his head. He was relieved his headache had gone away on its own, because if it hadn’t, he was certain it would be pulsing into a splitting migraine due to his sudden nervousness.

“Where are you from then, lad? You can’t have gotten here all on your own.” Shadow had been lying quietly on the floor near Torrhen’s feet, but his head shot up abruptly at those words. A low growl emanated from the back of his throat. Ser Jorah chuckled nervously. “Sorry, not entirely alone… But on your own with a direwolf.” Shadow relaxed and curled back down on the floor.

Torrhen snickered and bent over a bit in his chair to scratch his buddy behind the ears. “Never discredit Shadow. He’s just as smart as you and me.”

“I’ll remember that. But you didn’t answer my question, lad. Come to think of it, you haven’t told me your name yet.”

“It’s Torrhen. Torrhen Snow. And I’m not alone with just Shadow… or rather, I wasn’t supposed to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was supposed to be with my sister, Lyaella. And Sōnar. We were all supposed to come here together, but…” he trailed off for a moment, thinking how to explain himself without lying. “…but we got separated. I don’t know where they are.”

Ser Jorah nodded, understanding. “Did it happen during the earthquake? They might be looking for you now.”

Torrhen started to shake his head, then stopped, considering. “I… I’m not sure what happened, to be honest. It all happened so fast… but now that I think about it, I don’t think they made it to Meereen at all.”

“Why?”

“Because I know Sōnar wouldn’t go anywhere without Lyaella, and if Sōnar was here, people would start wondering when the queen got a fourth dragon.”

Ser Jorah jerked as he twisted around to look at him. The maester snapped at him in his foreign tongue due to needing him to stay still as he wrapped up the cut, but Ser Jorah ignored him. His full attention was directed at Torrhen. “Say that again, lad?”

“Our dragon. Sōnar. She’s the size of a horse.”

Ser Jorah stared at him, incredulous. Torrhen didn’t have to read minds to tell he thought he was lying. “Lad…”

“Ser, I’m not making this up, I swear! Sōnar’s real, and she really is a dragon!”

“Well… where is this dragon, then? And where’s your sister?”

“I told you, I don’t know. But I know it’s a good thing I met you. You’re one of Queen Daenerys’ queensguards. You can take me to her once we’re done here. It’s important that I see her.”

Ser Jorah closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He seemed quite troubled. “Lad, I…” he began uncertainly. There was a long pause, then he sighed, exasperated. “You understand why it’s hard for me to believe you, right? Why I can’t just blindly believe there’s another dragon out in the world and you happen to know all about it.”

Torrhen frowned. “You want proof? I can’t get you any. I don’t know where Sōnar is.”

“Then… explain to me how you and this sister of yours came to have one. If you do have a dragon, then why would it listen to you both? Only Targaryens were known to have dragons.”

“Easy. Me and Lyaella are Targaryen bastard twins.”

The slight skepticism on Ser Jorah’s face morphed at once into complete disbelief as he frowned. “The lies stop now. Tell me the truth.”

“But I’m not lying!” Torrhen insisted, irritation sinking into his tone. “Lyaella and I hate it when people lie! We’re not liars! I’m telling you the truth! Here, look for yourself!” Fiddling with his sword belt, he unclipped the black leather and passed it along with his sword still in its scabbard to the older man. “Take a look at the scabbard, at the emblem!”

Ser Jorah blinked at him for a moment before studying the leather casing. His mouth fell open a bit in surprise when he finally found the tiny emblem of the Targaryen three-headed dragon stitched into the scabbard, but it lasted only for a moment. He pressed his lips together in a tight line as he passed it back to the boy. “I can see that’s the symbol of House Targaryen, but anyone could have stitched that design.”

“Come on! What Northerner would sew the Targaryen dragon on their clothes unless they weren’t related to the dragon house?!”

“And yet you have no obvious traits of a proper Targaryen?”

Torrhen huffed. He’d always thought he’d been lucky to have been born with dark hair like his father. People in the North still hated him, but his minimal Targaryen features made him less of a target to abuse than Lyaella was since she apparently looked almost exactly like their mother. But now when he needed to look more Targaryen-like in order to get someone to believe him about his heritage, his Northern coloring was a problem. Damn irony. “You mean the silver hair? My sister has silver hair, I got Northern dark hair. We’re not identical twins. But where she has Northern eyes, I have Targaryen eyes.”

Ser Jorah blinked. “What?”

The boy grinned. “You didn’t notice before? Take a look. Lyaella’s got gray eyes, but mine are violet.”

Once again, Ser Jorah ignored the protests of the maester and peered in closer to Torrhen, staring intently at his face. Torrhen was slightly unnerved by how close he got, but he held his ground and let the knight look at him as long as he pleased. After what felt like an eternity, Ser Jorah finally saw whatever it was he was looking for in terms of subtle family resemblance to the Dragon Queen and blinked repeatedly, eyes widening like saucers.

“Seven hells…”

Torrhen smiled. “I know it’s hard to believe, but you can tell, right? You’re close to the queen, so you can see we’ve got the same eyes. You need to take me to her once we get out of here. If Lyaella and Sōnar are in Meereen like me and Shadow, they’ll be trying to meet her, too! Please, you’ve gotta help us!”

Ser Jorah stared at him for several seconds, seemingly lost for words on what to even say to him. Torrhen didn’t think too much about it. He understood it must be a huge shock for the older knight, learning that the Mother of Dragons actually wasn’t the only person with Valyrian blood left in the world anymore. But what did surprise the boy was how Ser Jorah sighed in defeat and looked away.

“What’s wrong?”

“Lad, there’s nothing I’d like more than to take you to the queen, but—”

He was cut off by the flap of their curtained off area being swung open. Two dark-skinned muscular soldiers dressed in black leather marched inside. The maester abruptly jumped to his feet and started babbling something in his language, but the soldier on the right said something back in the same foreign tongue. Whatever it was, it made the maester blink but quietly sit down without any further complaints.

Torrhen stared at the soldiers, bewildered as to what they wanted, by then he saw how Ser Jorah immediately stiffened. It only made him even more confused. What was going on?

“Ser Jorah,” said the soldier on the left, thankfully speaking in a heavily accented Common Tongue. “Time is up. We here to carry out queen’s orders.”

Ser Jorah’s expression fell. “I see.”

“Orders?” questioned Torrhen, brows furrowing. “What orders?”

The soldier on the right turned to him, fixed expression not changing at all. “Queen Daenerys exiled knight. He betray her. He leaves city by dusk, or he be killed.”

It took all of Torrhen’s willpower not to gasp. Now he knew what the current time period was. He’d landed in Meereen on the same day his mother had dismissed Ser Jorah from her service for a short time. This was bad. Ser Jorah wasn’t only his way into actually meeting the queen, he was a good man and a devoted follower to her cause. He and Lyaella had never understood why their mother had banished Ser Jorah from Meereen based on what they’d read about her reign —— their history book never mentioned her reasons for doing this —— but now that he was here in the past and could change things, he had to stop this. It didn’t matter that Ser Jorah had brought Tyrion Lannister to her later shortly after his banishment. The dwarf had already been on his way to Meereen to meet the queen prior to the knight abducting him. More importantly, if Ser Jorah hadn’t been exiled, he never would have contracted greyscale over his travels. If that hadn’t happened, he could have returned to Daenerys’ service immediately after she finally pardoned him. Stopping these guards from carrying out their orders was crucial to changing history for the better.

As the soldiers moved further into the room and roughly hauled Ser Jorah to his feet, Torrhen ignored the maester’s protests and slid off his chair on his good foot. “Wait, don’t!” he begged. “You can’t!”

“This not concern you, boy,” said the second soldier. “Sit. Rest.”

“S-Ser Jorah helped me!” Torrhen insisted, wobbling a bit as he hopped as fast as he could to the three of them. “He’s a good man!”

“He betray queen. We follow queen’s orders,” said the first. “We take him out of city. He resists or comes back, he dies.”

“That’s bull— woah!” Torrhen mistimed a hop and nearly teetered over. Were it not for Shadow trotting over and offering him some support to balance himself, he definitely would have fallen. “That’s bullshit!”

“Torrhen, it’s all right,” the knight assured him. “Sit down before you hurt yourself even more.” Torrhen scowled, but did as he was told and slowly hopped back to his chair. Not because he wanted to, but because it was getting harder and harder to stay balanced on only one foot even with Shadow at his side. He needed to sit. Nodding in satisfaction, Ser Jorah turned back to the soldiers. “I know what the queen said. I understand you’re just following her orders, but please… I need to stay longer. I have to—”

“No. Maester treated you. We take you out of city now.”

“But the queen—”

“Queen gave us orders. We obey them. We take you out of city, or we kill you.”

“I need to take this boy to her! She _must_ meet him!”

The guards glanced back over at Torrhen, one looking completely indifferent, the other curious, then looked at each other. Whatever it was they silently conveyed, it made them shake their heads at each other before focusing back on the knight.

“Boy can’t walk. We can’t take him.”

“Queen not mention him. He stay in city, meet her when better.”

“What?! _No!”_ Torrhen snapped, leaning forward a bit in his chair. “I need to see her _immediately!_ And Ser Jorah helped me! You’re not taking him anywhere!” He reached over for his discarded sword belt. He might have a bad ankle, but he’d be damned if he let this happen without a fight.

“Torrhen, enough,” said Ser Jorah, sliding the sword belt closer to himself and out of Torrhen’s reach. “It’s all right. I… I have to obey the queen’s orders.” Sighing a bit to himself, he nodded sullenly to the guards. “I’ll go with you freely. Just let me say farewell to the boy. I’ll be right out.”

That satisfied the soldiers, and they stepped back out from their curtained off section without another word.

Once they were gone, Ser Jorah turned to face Torrhen and smiled kindly. “I know this must seem unfair from your perspective, lad, but the Unsullied are only carrying out the queen’s orders. I did something terrible, and this is my punishment. I must leave the city.”

Torrhen scowled. So those were the Unsullied. Two of the men under the command of that asshole Grey Worm. He made a mental note to figure out which soldier in particular was that fucker another day. In the offhand chance he and Shadow were the only ones to have traveled back in time and he failed to change the past for the better, making sure that cockless shit didn’t demand justice for his mother with the life of his father would have to be a top priority. Just one he couldn’t dwell on right now. “But how am I supposed to see Queen Daenerys without you?” he protested. “She knows you, not me. How am I even going to meet her?”

Ser Jorah chuckled. “The queen holds court every day for the common folk to come to her, speak to her about their problems and ask for her help. When you’re better, go to the Great Pyramid and request a meeting. The Unsullied on duty will let you in.”

“Really?”

“Aye.”

“Well… okay. I guess that might work. I’ll put in a good word for you with her, Ser Jorah. I promise. So try to come back as soon as you can. If I’m lucky, she’ll forgive you right away and you can rejoin her queensguard immediately.”

The knight chuckled. “Thank you, lad. That means a lot. But it’s not that simple. It’ll take a lot more than just helping you meet her to make the queen forgive me.”

“Well, do whatever you have to do, then. Just… don’t go too far or take too long. You’ve gotta come back and rejoin the queen as soon as possible!”

Ser Jorah smiled. “I’ll try, lad. Take care of yourself ‘til then, you and that wolf of yours.”

“You too, Ser Jorah. Come back soon!”

Torrhen smiled kindly to the Northern knight as he left, but as soon as he was gone, he let out a long sigh and slumped over in his chair. He had no idea what it was the maester was trying to tell him, but what did it matter anyway? He couldn’t go and follow Ser Jorah’s advice regarding how to meet his mother right now with his ankle as bad as it was. He was stuck here for the next few days. He couldn’t do anything to prevent Ser Jorah’s banishment. It made him feel useless.

Shadow seemed to instinctively know that he was upset, because he scooted closer to his young master and rested his head on his lap, red eyes staring up at him inquisitively. Torrhen smiled lightly and ran his fingers through his fur. “Thanks, boy. I’m glad you’re here. If you weren’t, then I’d really be alone.”

Licking his fingers a few times, Shadow slowly laid down on the ground near his feet and shut his eyes, content to nap and rest now that they were out of immediate danger. Torrhen wished he could do the same, but he didn’t dare. There was too much on his mind to be able to rest. More importantly, people could start screaming any minute now that a little girl with a dragon had been spotted wandering around the city calling his name. If Lyaella and Sōnar were out there somewhere, he had to stay alert so they could find him. He was the big brother, she was the little sister. It was his job to find her and protect her. Once he managed to meet their mother, it’d be easier for him to find them. Torrhen could only hope she and Sōnar could hold out until then.

“I’ll find you, Lyaella,” he murmured, grabbing hold of his lute and squeezing it tightly. “I promise…”

* * *

Instead of dragging him out of the city straight away, the Unsullied guards were nice enough to escort him to the bazaar so he could purchase a horse and a few days worth of supplies. Not that they said a word to him the entire time or let him go anywhere else after. Once he had everything he needed, they took him directly to the main gates.

“Don’t come back to Meereen, Ser Jorah,” one of them warned him. “We obey our queen, and queen serious in commands.”

Jorah nodded as he rode off, but inside, his thoughts were a scattered mess. He had found a Targaryen child, and a boy, on top of it! Had Torrhen’s last name been Targaryen instead of Snow, he’d have a better claim to the Iron Throne than Daenerys did…

Where on earth had that boy come from? And aside from that wolf, why was he alone? He mentioned something about having a twin sister that looked more Targaryen than he did, and according to him they had a dragon too… but where were they? What about the rest of their family? Their parents? He wished he’d had more time to talk to Torrhen before the Unsullied had arrived and dragged him off.

Hopefully, that boy would be able to see the queen right away once his ankle was better. Jorah wasn’t naive enough to expect Daenerys to automatically forgive him even if Torrhen mentioned him in passing to her whenever they met, but one thing he did know was that his queen would be overjoyed to discover she wasn’t alone anymore as the very last Targaryen. He could only hope that boy could meet her soon.

Still, that didn’t solve the mystery about why Torrhen Snow was evidently alone aside from that direwolf of his. Jorah would have to keep his eyes and ears open regarding any rumors about a silver-haired little girl with a dragon from now on, or if there were people out there searching for a little boy with a direwolf matching Torrhen’s description. He’d promised that boy he’d try to find a way to get back into the queen’s good graces soon. He’d made the decision long ago to stay faithful to the rightful heir to the Iron Throne upon realizing what a good person Daenerys Stormborn truly was. He made mistakes before which was why he was being banished back into exile, but his loyalties hadn’t wavered.

He would find a way to earn Daenerys’ trust once again. He was loyal to the Dragon Queen, and he was devoted to the Dragon Prince now, too.


	6. Wolf out of Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm sure you're all delighted to see that I've posted a new chapter! In all honesty, I didn't expect I'd be done with it as quickly as I did. For starters, I've had to cut my daily writing time in half recently as I divide my creative streak into working on my first official art commission as a freelancer. Also, I originally had something slightly different outlined for this chapter, as I originally planned to start the chapter with Torrhen, then shift to Jon, then Lyaella, and then end the chapter with Torrhen again. However, Longclaw 1-6 told me I should try to shrink down my chapters slightly so I can finish them and have them posted online faster.
> 
> I tried following his advice in this chapter by deciding to devote this chapter into a Meereen-only chapter and go back to the Wall come next chapter. That seemed fine and everything went smoothly... at least at first. It wasn't until I finished writing the end of the first scene in this chapter that I realized that the way I originally outlined the chapter for certain ways scenes cut off compared to how I was now writing made the chapter not flow correctly. I was missing a crucial element to make the timeline of this chapter work, and I reached out to some of my writing buddies here on to help. Thanks to Longclaw and my new GoT fanfic pal WrathofAvarice, I figured out how to get back on the right track again and was able to carry on with writing. Thank you both so much you guys! :D
> 
> Now, onto the current stats for the story! I'm over the moon right now as I report that there are 199 kudos, 56 bookmarks, 4251 views, and we reached the desired comment goal again of 85 comments! Woohoo! We reached the comment goal again! I give every reviewer a virtual hug! *Happily hugs every reviewer* THANK YOU! With only fifteen comments still needed to reach one hundred, I think it's time we all try to go the distance this time! No... let's go beyond it! How does 110 comments sound this time? I know you all can do it!
> 
> Come on, everyone! It's not that hard! Just type a quick note at the end of the chapter! It's easy! :)
> 
> That's all from me for now! Enjoy reading this next chapter, and please comment when you're done!
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> \- Elphaba818

_“Aōha ankle iksis sȳrkta sir. Kostā henujagon.”_

“What’s going on? Where are you taking me?”

_“Naenie qubykta hen than iksā iēdrosa ōdrikagon. Istiti mazverdagon space syt people naejot māzigon isse.”_

“ _Ow!_ H-Hey! Slow down! I can’t hop that — argh! — that fast!”

_“Keligon whining. Aōha ankle might iēdrosa sagon sore, yn kostā geron va ziry. Ao should sagon mirre sȳrkta iemnȳ se hembar dorolvie tubissa. Kostā henujagon.”_

“Wait, why’re we going to the entrance? Are you throwing me out? _Why?_ ”

Torrhen did his best to wrestle his arm out of the maester’s tight grip, but between being forced to limp around on only one foot and trying to keep a firm grip on Shadow’s fur, there really wasn’t much strength to his actions. Were it not for the fact that Shadow had been forced to quickly snatch up his lute in his jaws again and trot after them when he’d been forcibly dragged out of bed, the boy would have ordered his direwolf to snarl and snap at the old windbag already. Not bite him, just scare him so he’d let him go. What did he do, anyway?

As soon as they were outside, the maester gave him a small push forward. _“Gūrogon care hen aōla, riña. Se ȳdra daor rūs bona deks. Ao jorrāelagon naejot rhaenagon dekurūbare va ziry.”_

Torrhen groaned in aggravation, his patience finally reaching its limits. “I don’t know what in seven hells you’re saying! Speak the Common Tongue!”

His shouting finally made the maester realize just how annoyed he actually was. He held up a hand to Torrhen as a signal to wait a moment, then vanished back inside the sickhouse. He returned a few minutes later with a younger man in tow. Not a maester, just a regular Meereenese citizen waiting to be treated. Torrhen stared at them in puzzlement as the maester gestured to him and his wolf while murmuring something ineligible to the newcomer.

The newcomer nodded to the maester and then focused on Torrhen. “I know the Common Tongue. The maester here asked me to translate for you,” he explained. “He says your ankle sprain is better now. He and the other maesters need to clear out space for those who are worse off to come in. They need you to leave.”

Torrhen stared. “But my ankle still hurts! I’m not better!”

“It’s better than it was. It might hurt, but you can walk on it,” said the translator. “He says not to baby it anymore. You must get used to walking on it again. Take care of yourself.”

And without further ado, the maester and the translator went back in without another word.

“Hey! Hey, wait!” Torrhen yelled. “You can’t just throw me out like this! Come on!”

He hopped forward and tried to pull back the curtain flap to head back in, but the maester quickly reappeared in the door frame. Yelling at him harshly in the foreign language, he forcibly shoved him back out on the streets and swung the curtain shut again.

Torrhen clenched his teeth, fury boiling up inside. “Screw you! Queen Daenerys won’t put up with this treatment when I tell her what you’re doing!” he snapped. “Come on, Shadow!”

The black wolf dropped his boys’ lute and waited until Torrhen collected it before moving obediently to his side again as extra support as they trudged along the dirt path. Torrhen was glad Shadow was here with him. Despite how pissed he still was with that maester for tossing him out, he did admit that his ankle _did_ feel somewhat better after the past four days staying off it. But the maester was wrong in assuming it was completely better now and walkable. He could afford to put a tiny bit of weight on it in intervals, but were it not for Shadow at his side, Torrhen knew he wouldn’t be going nearly as fast as he was now. They were already moving at a snail’s pace due to his injury.

Truth be told, Torrhen was leading Shadow around randomly, because he had no idea at all on where to go or what to do. Finding Lyaella and Sōnar was his top priority above all else, but after four days of being stuck in the sickhouse with his bad ankle, he had come to the conclusion that his sister and their dragon weren’t anywhere to be found in Meereen. If Lyaella and Sōnar were somewhere close, rumors of a silver-haired little girl with a dragon would be on everyone’s lips already, in both the weird language most people spoke here and the rare few that knew the Common Tongue. Instead, the only things Torrhen had overhead people talking about in the sickhouse was the earthquake he’d apparently caused when arriving in the past, and the tragedy that occurred because of his mother’s dragons directly following the disaster. Apparently, his mother’s black dragon had gotten freaked out by the whole earthquake and accidentally killed a child before flying off somewhere west of the city. Torrhen knew from the stories he and Lyaella had heard from Queen Yara, Lord Tyrion, and Ser Davos while growing up that their mother’s black dragon had been her favorite out of all her dragons and had been named Drogon, but they’d also heard from them and read in _A Song of Ice and Fire_ history book that following Drogon’s disappearance from the city, their mother had proceeded to lock up her other two dragons beneath the city catacombs. Lyaella had always cried when they reached that part in their mother’s story, but Torrhen personally never understood the logic behind their mother’s actions in doing that. Why was it necessary to lock away the two dragons that hadn’t hurt anyone? If their mother had been scared about them attacking people, shouldn’t she have made it her primary focus to train them _not_ to do so? Sōnar was good and tame, but that was only because he and Lyaella had trained her not to hurt people. She was protective of them, yes, and he and Lyaella had also taught her to spit dragonfire on command in case they ever needed their dragon sister to defend them, but she would never harm anyone who meant no harm to them. He’d have to remember to ask his mother about this later after he finally met her.

But that mental note only reminded him of his primary problem right now: what was he going to do? He had no idea where Lyaella and Sōnar were, so searching for them was impossible. The next best thing was to try to meet his mother and introduce himself like Ser Jorah had suggested. But she was currently in the Great Pyramid. How was he even going to get there? Ser Jorah had been rushed by those damn Unsullied guards to leave, so he hadn’t given him any directions, and all the signs on the street were written in the same foreign language the maester back at the sickhouse spoke. Again, what was he going to do?

He had to find someone who spoke the Common Tongue to give him directions. He wasn’t going to be able to do anything in this city unless he figured out where everything was, especially considering how everything in Meereen was out of whack thanks to the earthquake. When he met his mother and successfully convinced her he was who he said he was, he’d have to beg her to teach him how to read and speak the local language. If he remembered his lessons and what he and Lyaella had read about their mother growing up, their history book claimed she reigned as queen of Meereen until Winter finally came to the world at the end of next year. There’d be plenty of time for him to learn at least the basics of whatever language was dominant here in Meereen if he was going to stay here for at least a good two years. If he was lucky, Lyaella and Sōnar would turn up here in the city looking for him, Shadow, and their mother sometime soon. If not… he could only hope and pray to the all the gods out there that his sister and their dragon not only made it back in time too, but that they were safe. Best case scenario, Lyaella and Sōnar had landed somewhere close to their father at the Wall. Worse case scenario… the two of them had been found by an enemies to House Targaryen or House Stark, like the Lannisters. While the twins had never met any Lannister aside from Lord Tyrion and they had mixed feelings regarding him, they knew he himself was an overall decent person and he had always treated them with respect. Anyone else from the lions den was definitely a threat… aside from maybe Lord Tyrion’s older brother, Ser Jamie. According to Ser Lady Brienne and Lord Tyrion, there was indeed honor within him despite what the history books told about him. It was only hidden due to people not knowing the truth about why he killed the Mad King and the fact that he was apparently in love and had bastard children with his twin sister.

But that was all food for thought for later. Right now, he had to find someone who could give him directions to the Great Pyramid. Still steadying himself with Shadow’s help, Torrhen weakly stumbled around the corner only to immediately gasp in alarm. Ignoring his direwolfs’ protesting growl, Torrhen fisted his fingers harshly into Shadow’s furry neck, gritted his teeth to endure the pain in his ankle, and shuffled as fast as he could off to the side where some wealthy-looking citizens were standing. He had no choice. Had they lingered in the middle of the road even a moment longer, they would’ve both been run over by all the Unsullied warriors dragging the enormous gold statue he’d seen in the aftermath of the earthquake the other day on ropes down the path. Torrhen stared in bafflement as they trudged down the road. That statue was enormous! It had to be at least twice the size of Winterfell castle, maybe even bigger! And it was made out of solid gold, too… It had to be worth a fortune. How many Unsullied soldiers were pulling that thing, anyway? He automatically guessed a couple hundred, but that had only been based on a quick precursory glance prior to moving out of the way. Now that the Unsullied were literally dragging the statue past him, he was sure he’d been wrong. It had to take at least a thousand warriors to move something that big and heavy…

“Incredible, just incredible…”

“I know. It’s awful.”

“Can’t believe it. I honestly can’t believe it…”

Torrhen’s ears perked up, his heart leaping in his chest. The Common Tongue. The people standing near him spoke the Common Tongue!

He whipped around. “Hey! Excuse me—!”

“Don’t ask us for handouts, boy,” said the rather plump-looking man of the trio, a definite sneer in his tone. “You be free now, but we’re still leaps and bounds better than you.”

His companions chuckled wickedly. Torrhen blinked in surprise and examined them more closely. He’d noticed straight away upon getting out of the street that all three of them appeared moderately wealthy based on their fine silk clothes, but that had been based on only a quick glance. Now that Torrhen was looking at them up close, he realized there was more to them than that. They each had fat money pouches strapped to their waists and were looking down their noses at him and Shadow in obvious disdain. Torrhen wanted to scream at his apparent bad luck. An entire city full of people, and the first ones he’d found that spoke his language were a trio of former masters.

“I’m not looking for a handout,” he grumbled, gritting his teeth. “I just noticed you know the Common Tongue.”

The one in the middle was the tallest, and the way he seemed to tower over his companions made Torrhen feel very small. “Yes, we know it. Why does that matter?”

“I don’t know the local language. I just want some directions.”

The plump-looking one chuckled. “Westerosi, are you? What, stowed away on a ship looking for a grand adventure?”

Torrhen scowled, fists clenching up tight. “I’m not a stowaway! Just tell me how to get to the Great Pyramid and I’ll be on my way!”

The last one finally spoke, audibly scoffing in disgust. “Oh, on your way to see the so-called queen, are you?” he sneered. “Going to beg her to make all your problems disappear?”

“Don’t talk about the queen like that!” Torrhen snapped. “She’s the Mother of Dragons and the Breaker of Chains! Respect her!”

“Respect her? For what?” said the tall one. “She only has power because she used those dragons of hers to steal an army for herself in Astapor, and now she’s using it to completely wipe away our way of life.”

“Well, if your way of life wasn’t about treating other human beings as cattle, she probably wouldn’t have!”

The third one rolled his eyes. “Whether you agree or not isn’t the point. She has no business interfering with our livelihood, and has even less of a right to wipe out our culture and history.”

“Slavery is wrong! Daenerys Targaryen is doing a good thing by ending it and you—”

“I’m not talking about slavery, stupid boy. I mean how she’s turning a blind eye on the traditions and cultures of Meereen itself. She’s all about freedom, yet she refuses to give the people of Meereen the freedom to act like Meereenese citizens!”

Torrhen’s retorts died away on his tongue. He tilted his head, staring quizzically at the former masters. “What?”

“See for yourself. Look there, at the statue. You see what the Unsullied are doing with it?”

Torrhen turned. The Unsullied were still dragging the enormous gold statue down the street, but instead of dragging it towards the main road to cart it out of the city, they appeared to be taking it to a particular shop on this street. A blacksmith forge. The boy watched, puzzled, as a handful of soldiers approached the forge, calling out in the local language for the owner.

Still thoroughly confused, Torrhen turned back to the men. “They dragged it up to a blacksmith shop. So what?”

The portly fellow sighed. “Use your head. Instead of having a blacksmith brought to the pyramid to restore the statue, the damn Dragon Queen had the Unsullied bring the statue to the blacksmith. Why do you think they’d do that?”

Torrhen didn’t know what to say. He wracked his brains, but he honestly didn’t have a clue. “I don’t know… Obviously she wants him to do something to it.”

“Isn’t it obvious?! She’s not going to restore it on top of the pyramid! She’s going to have it melted down!”

His brows furrowed together. “What’s so bad about that?”

“It’s the Great Harpy Statue. It’s been part of the Great Pyramid ever since the pyramid itself was first built with the rest of the city. It’s part of our history and culture… yet the so-called queen isn’t going to restore it! She’s having it demolished!”

“It’s insulting! It’s bad enough she took away our source of trade by freeing the slaves when she conquered our city. Now she’s taking away our history and culture!”

“She better at least reopen the fighting pits. If she doesn’t, we’ll know for sure that she only cares about being in power rather than real freedom and justice.”

“…Just tell me how to get to the Great Pyramid and I’ll be on my way.”

The portly one turned and pointed further down the street. “Follow this road ‘til the second intersection. Take a left there, then left again. Follow that street for awhile and you’ll find it.”

“Thanks. Let’s go, Shadow.”

Obedient as ever, Shadow was as silent as a shadow itself as his boy hopped away from the wealthy trio. Torrhen was relieved the direwolf hadn’t put up a fuss during the conversation. Those former masters _definitely_ didn’t like his future mother. Had Shadow decided to growl or make a partial snap at some of their fingers, those miserable shits would have taken it out on him, meaning they would have examined him more closely. Had they gotten a good look at his eyes and then made the connection to Daenerys Targaryen… there were countless possibilities as to what they would’ve done with him, and more than half those scenarios ended rather unpleasantly.

Still, he couldn’t get their words from drumming around in his head as he hobbled along down the street. He didn’t want to think about what they said, but he couldn’t help it. Now that he’d heard things from their point of view, it was impossible _not_ to think of things their way. Huffing a bit in self-annoyance, Torrhen glanced around at all the clean up work that was going on across the city. It had only been a few days since the earthquake happened, so it wasn’t like a lot of progress had been made yet in terms of rebuilding, but Meereen was definitely on the road to recovery. Many Unsullied were working to clear out excess debris from ruined buildings and quite a few were helping rebuild the homes and businesses for former masters and freedmen alike. Progress was slow but steady. Give it a few more days, and probably all the excess rubble would be cleared off the road and at least a handful of the damaged buildings would be halfway repaired. It was all good work, Torrhen knew, and he was indeed proud of his mother for all she was doing to restore the city to its previous state… but everything the former masters said was still running through his mind. Despite his own self-hatred for doing so, he glanced back over his shoulder at the golden harpy statue in front of the blacksmith’s shop.

He didn’t like it, but the former masters had a point. Outlawing slavery itself was one thing, and if that caused the rich to lose their main source of income, that was their problem, not the rest of Meereen. But the statue itself… if those men were right and that statue was a great symbol of the culture and history of the city, then his mother was wrong to have it destroyed. Why wasn’t she restoring it to the Great Pyramid? Even if she didn’t prioritize it’s restoration in comparison to rebuilding the vital areas throughout the city, the fact that she had every intention of restoring it soon would mean a great deal to the Meereenese people. As a Northerner, remembering the past and respecting traditions was a vital part of his heritage and personal beliefs. He didn’t want to necessarily agree with the former masters about this, but everything he knew as a Northerner was screaming at him that they had a legitimate point. Perhaps the queen hadn’t considered what the people would think when she made this decision? He’d have to mention this to her when he finally met her. If he could convince her to call off her plans for destroying that harpy statue, he might be able to help her boost her popularity amongst the freedmen _and_ the former masters throughout the city.

Between his slow speed from his half-healed ankle and having to reroute his path due to one road being impassable from an entire mountain of rubble, it took Torrhen ages to make it across the city. It’d been sometime in the mid-morning when the maester had tossed them out, but now the sun was at its highest point in the sky. And the _heat…_ it was so damn hot. His head pounded in agony from the harsh sunlight beating down on him, and he could tell the scorching temperature didn’t agree with Shadow either. His wolf ears were tucked downward in distress, and they were trudging along much slower now compared to when they were first thrown out of the sickhouse.

“Stupid sun,” he muttered, tucking his lute under his arm and wiping away a trail of sweat clinging to his brow. “How’s it possible to be this hot?”

Talking at all took a great deal of effort of his part, and his arms felt as heavy as lead as he forced Shadow to halt momentarily so he could shrug his way out of his Northern winter cloak. It was too hot to keep it on, but taking it off only made everything slightly more bearable. Shadow panted heavily at his side, just as worn out and overheated as he was. Unlike Torrhen, Shadow didn’t have any respite from the sweltering heat. His thick black fur was attached to his body. Torrhen still had his training sword, but he was reluctant to pull the direwolf aside and shear some of his coat off. If he had a knife, he’d do it in a minute, but a sword was so long. One wrong move when trying to angle the blade a certain way, and he might accidentally stab or slice his friend in another area of his body. Plus, one weird thing thing that Torrhen had discovered about Essos during his first night in the sickhouse was how different the temperature was at night. The desert city was blazing hot and all but unbearable to endure during the day, but after sunset, the temperature dropped completely. Granted, he was a Northerner that had only known Winter his entire life, so the chill of the city was nothing compared to the freezing nights he had spent in Winterfell over the years, but it still made him shiver a bit. Shadow was hot and uncomfortable due to his thick fur now, but that fur would keep him warm at night when the sun went down. It was impossible to be comfortable both ways.

Torrhen was all but worn out and sweating up a storm when they finally saw the Great Pyramid looming ahead, but the sight of it was enough to pull him through his heated fatigue. Smiling weakly, Torrhen forced his good foot to stumble onward. The sooner they got there, the sooner they could get inside and cool down.

Two Unsullied soldiers stood guard at the main entrance, faces concealed by their black helmets so only their eyes could be seen. Obviously they did this so as to conceal their emotions from their enemies, but Torrhen didn’t miss how both their eyes snapped at once to him and Shadow as they trudged up to them.

Energy all but depleted at this point, he swallowed thickly and forced his lips to curl upwards into what he hoped was a friendly smile. “Hello…” he gasped, unable to suppress his fatigue and weariness from his tone. “I’m Torrhen. Torrhen Snow… This is Shadow… We’re here to… to see Queen Daenerys…” He leaned heavily onto his pal when he was done. He had to if he was going to stay standing.

The guards said nothing to him at first. They simply stared between him and Shadow in disbelief through the thin slits of their helmets, blinking repeatedly. Exchanging mild looks with one another, they soon turned back to him.

“What you want with queen?” asked the guard on the left, his Common Tongue just as heavily accented as the soldiers he’d met a few days ago who dragged Ser Jorah out of the sickhouse. Either all Essosi spoke this way, or just the Unsullied in general. Whatever the case, Torrhen was just glad they spoke the Common Tongue in general. He didn’t know what he would have done if he got here only to find that neither guard knew the language.

“We… We want to request an audience with her,” he told them. “The queen… she meets with the common people regularly, right? Please let us see her! I _have_ to see her!”

The first guard glanced over at his companion, but his companion didn’t meet his gaze. His eyes were fixed solely on Shadow. “You go in, wait in line with others. But not beast.”

Torrhen jerked, his heated fatigue vanishing rather abruptly. “What?! No!” He squeezed the fistful of fur in his hand twice as hard, unwilling to let go. “Shadow’s my direwolf! My friend! He stays with me!”

“Dire… wolf?”

“No time to explain that! Just please! He stays with me!”

“No. Wolf might attack queen or others. It stays behind.”

“He won’t! I swear he won’t! He’s a good wolf, and tame! He’ll protect me if someone tries hurting me first, but he won’t attack anyone unless I tell him otherwise!”

“And what if you _do_ ask him that? Too dangerous. We protect our queen.”

“Come on—”

“Go in without wolf, or don’t go in at all. Your choice.”

Torrhen huffed. Annoying. Completely annoying. But it was critical that he finally met his future mother. He didn’t have any other options here. “Fine, but on two conditions.”

“No conditions! Listen to us or—”

“No, listen to _me!_ First condition, look at Shadow right now! He’s too hot! Promise me you’ll find him somewhere to sit in the shade and give him some water! He’ll die if he doesn’t cool down soon! Take care of him for me while I’m gone!”

The guards blinked but glanced in unison at Shadow. Sure enough, the only reason the black wolf was still standing was because Torrhen was hanging onto him for support. Shadow was leaning listlessly into his boy as he panted heavily, a dull glaze in his red eyes as he stared blankly ahead at nothing.

“…Very well. We can do that,” said the Unsullied guard on the right. “And what else?”

Torrhen took a deep breath, then hesitantly let go of Shadow to try putting weight down on his bad foot. An involuntary yelp of pain escaped him as he quickly picked it up again, trying to balance on one foot.

“I sprained my ankle a few days ago. I can’t walk without Shadow’s help. If he stays behind, I need someone to help me move around.”

Again, the Unsullied soldiers looked at each other in surprise. The one on the right muttered something in the foreign language to the other, and the left-hand guard nodded in reply before turning back to him.

“I take you. Come along.”

“Thank you. Shadow? Wait here for me, buddy. I’ll be back soon.”

The direwolf nosed his hand for a moment, looking up at him with big, sad eyes. Still, he obeyed Torrhen’s words. Trotting over to a small patch of shade from the shadows of a building across the way, he laid down on his belly and stared across the road at the pyramid entrance. Waving goodbye to his dearest companion, Torrhen stumbled up to the guard who offered to help him before glancing over at the other.

“Don’t forget to give him water. You promised.”

“I won’t.”

Nodding thankfully, Torrhen allowed the soldier assigned to assist him to wrap an arm around his shoulders and hobbled slowly alongside him as they entered the pyramid.

“You’re gonna take me straight to Queen Daenerys, right? It’s very important that I see her right away.”

“I take you to where everyone waits to see her. You wait your turn.”

“Wait my turn? What?”

“Everyone wants to see Mother of Dragons, ask for help after earthquake. Everyone come before you? They arrive first, so they see her first. You wait your turn.”

Torrhen groaned. Were it not for the fact he had to hold on to the Unsullied soldier with one hand and his lute with the other, he would’ve pinched the bridge of his nose to deal with his aggravation. “How many are still waiting to see her?”

“Over a hundred.”

A string of colorful curses escaped his mouth in rapid succession. The Unsullied obviously didn’t know enough of the Common Tongue to know the full gist of everything he said, but Torrhen didn’t care. He was entitled to be pissed for a minute. Of course it would still be impossible to meet his mother straight away upon his arrival. Nothing could ever come easy, now could it?

When he was finally done, he pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, trying to suppress the fury building inside him. It was hard not letting it consume him, but he had to try. Whatever the reason was that caused him to get angry so easily these days, he had to fight it. He might be descended from House Targaryen, but he couldn’t let his rage consume him. He wasn’t a prince any more than his sister was a princess, and the last thing he wanted to do in this timeline was earn the nickname the Mad Prince. “Please tell me I’ll be able to see her before court closes for the day,” he pleaded. “It’s… It’s _vital_ that I meet her.”

“Depends how fast line moves. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. Come early tomorrow if not.”

Torrhen gritted his teeth in annoyance. It was the only way he knew he could hold his tongue when they entered the main waiting area and he saw for himself how many people were lined up to speak to the queen. Sure enough, there were so many people inside Torrhen couldn’t even count them all. Wealthy and poor, young and old. It was a like an endless sea of people everywhere. Torrhen barely had enough time to take them all in before the soldier steered him to the very end of the massive line-up, winding all the way around the room to the very back-most corner behind a grouping of ornamental marble pillars. Bowing to the boy once he was in place behind a rather tired-looking goat herder, the Unsullied spun around on his heel and marched out the door without another word.

Unable to stay standing thanks to ankle, Torrhen huffed and slumped to the ground against the closest pillar, making sure to stay close enough to the line so that no one could try claiming he was too far away from it and had therefore forfeited his place. Dumping his cloak and lute next to him, he sighed as leaned back against the hard marble.

This was going to be a _long_ wait.

* * *

“Thank you so much, your grace. My family thanks you. Your generosity knows no bounds.”

“It is no trouble at all. After tragedy, everyone must come together to pull through. If you’ll follow Red Ant down the hall, he’ll escort you to where more of the Unsullied are passing out extra food and provisions to those who need it.

“Yes, your grace. Thank you again.”

Dany waited until the peasant man had fully left the room before allowing her polite, queenly smile to fade away. “I never realized just how heavy the weight of a crown could be…” she sighed. “Two hundred people already, and it’s only midday.”

Missandei turned to her, concern shining in her dark eyes. “Would you like to take a short break, your grace? We could adjourn for lunch and continue in an hour.”

Despite how she rubbed her temples, Dany shook her head. “No, no, Missandei. That’s not necessary. The people out there have already been waiting for hours now. It’s not right making them wait even longer. I just need a moment.”

From where he stood behind her in his bodyguard position as the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, Barristan smiled and stepped forward a bit to look her in the eye. “Your brother Rhaegar would be so proud of you, my queen. Him and your mother. Many rulers wouldn’t care about the consideration of the smallfolk, let alone making sure they’re well provided for after a natural disaster.”

She smiled brightly. “Well, I don’t intend to be like all those rulers, Ser Barristan.” she replied. “I might not have been raised in a castle, but I intend to be the type of monarch who always puts my people needs ahead of my own.”

“Spoken like a true queen, your grace. Well said.”

“Thank you.”

“But your grace, you really should consider taking a short break,” Missandei interjected. “I spoke with Grey Worm before he and his men left to take the harpy statue to the blacksmith. He said there were still almost a hundred people waiting to speak with you. I’m sure more have arrived since then.”

Dany closed her eyes, inhaling slowly. It was all she could do to stop herself from sighing. That earthquake had to be one of the worst possible things that could have happened to the city. These past few days she’d been running herself ragged trying to deal with the aftermath. Her Unsullied were stretched thin as they helped the citizens. Clearing debris, rebuilding dwellings, passing out supplies to citizens, and searching for survivors possibly trapped beneath the rubble. It honestly never occurred to Daenerys that people might be still alive beneath the debris after the first twenty-four hours passed, but to her surprise, Grey Worm had reported that some of his men had found a young woman still alive and buried in a small air pocket in the rubble two days after the disaster. Since then, three other survivors had also been found in that way, but the majority of the time, her soldiers mainly found dead bodies buried in the sand and stone and had them brought to the Temple of the Graces. That was a whole other ordeal that added to her stress: organizing the mass funeral for all those who had sadly passed. So far, it seemed as though nearly forty people had died during the earthquake, former masters and freedmen alike. So many citizens had been coming to her over the past few days asking for her aid, but the hardest ones for her to face were those who came asking if there was a chance their missing family members had been found alive by her Unsullied. It broke her heart to tell them that their loved ones were gone.

“Did I upset you, your grace? I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s not that Missandei, don’t worry. It’s just all very overwhelming.”

Barristan nodded thoughtfully. “It has been a long few days. The whole city seems to be waiting to speak to you.”

“That they have, Ser Barristan. I don’t wish to criticize the people, but they’re all asking for the same things,” she mused. “Medical aid since the sickhouses are overcrowded. Food and water. Temporary lodgings…”

“Perhaps we could come up with a better system for those who wish to see you, your grace?” Missandei suggested. “We could start asking citizens when they arrive what they wish to speak to you about? We can keep requests sorted that way.”

“A good idea in theory, Missandei, but I do not wish for the people to think I am intentionally rushing through their visits. I want them to know that I care by listening to each of their requests.”

“What do you propose we do then?”

Dany was silent for a short time as she considered things, but then brightened considerably. “Perhaps we’ve been handling all this the wrong way. We should be looking at the restoration of Meereen as a way to improve it, not merely rebuild it.”

“Your grace?”

“I don’t understand, my queen.”

“We’ve only been focused so far on dealing with the current rebuilding status and ensuring that the people are provided with temporary housing and rations. We haven’t thought about what will happen after everything goes back to normal,” she explained. “So many former slaves were living in shelters even before the earthquake because they had nowhere to go. There aren’t sickhouses to go around to care for people in the event of another tragedy. And the masters are still angry that their main source of profit is gone since I’ve outlawed slavery. We should use this time to rectify all this.”

Barristan’s eyes lit up with delight. “That’s a wonderful idea, your grace. It could help bring the city together, the freedmen and the former masters alike. If we frame this right, it could show the people that you care about everyone in the city, not just the common people.”

Dany nodded. She personally didn’t care what the nobles of Meereen thought about her after seeing for herself how they crucified all those innocent slave children on the road to the city, but she couldn’t deny that they too were now her subjects. They too deserved the chance to live in her new world, provided of course that they understood and respected her laws and rulership. So long as they accepted this and didn’t challenge her, she would be just and fair towards them too.

Missandei nodded at Barristan’s words, but a hesitant smile was on her lips. “I agree that it’s a fine idea, your grace, but I fear you’re forgetting one thing.”

Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“The cost of rebuilding everything is already quite expensive. We’ve gone through so much gold having extra food and medicines brought in on the trade ships. We might not be able to afford to build any extra projects, let alone finish rebuilding at all.”

The queen tensed. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d been spending to get the city back on its feet. That was indeed a problem. “Do you suppose we should request a loan from the Iron Bank? I personally don’t like the bankers considering they wouldn’t entertain my brother’s loan when he went to them, but my brother was both foolish and arrogant in how he dealt with them. They might be more willing to negotiate with me.”

“I strongly advise otherwise, your grace,” Barristan interjected. “When King Robert died, he left the crown in significant debt with the Iron Bank. They don’t take kindly to not being paid back. When you reclaim the Seven Kingdoms, they’ll be looking to you to repay that debt. Don’t add an additional loan from them on top of that.”

Dany’s brow rose. “But I am not King Robert. I can see what they would expect the Lannister’s to repay that loan, but they would ask the same from me?”

“If the Lannister’s haven’t repaid it themselves by the time you reclaim your birthright, then yes, your grace. They do not care who sits on the Iron Throne so long as the whoever wins it repays them for its previous occupants mistakes.”

She sighed tiredly. “I see. That’s very unfortunate. I suppose I’ll have to slightly alter my initial for that fallen harpy statue.”

“Are you sure, your grace?”

“I have no other choice, Ser Barristan.”

“At the very least, wait for Hizdahr to return from Yunkai with the Second Sons. I know you’re not fond of him, your grace, but he claimed his father was in charge of restoring many of Meereen’s important landmarks before your arrival. He might have some ideas on how to execute your plan at a moderate cost.”

Dany saw the logic in this and nodded. “Very well. I’ll speak with him about it after he and Daario return this afternoon. In the meantime, I must continue serving the people.”

Barristan nodded and stepped back into his proper place as her loyal guard while Missandei signaled to the Unsullied guarding the entryway to allow the next citizen inside. Hours passed as Dany listened to the citizens pleas. It was long and tedious, but she maintained her queenly smile and helped the people as best as she could. Holding court was certainly not as exciting as conquering, but she was a queen. It was her duty to watch over and provide for the people.

She had just finished saying farewell to a local merchant when Grey Worm entered the audience chamber, followed swiftly by Hizdahr zo Loraq and Daario Naharis. They had finally returned from their diplomatic mission to Astapor and Yunkai. They approached the steps to her dais and bowed.

“My queen,” said Grey Worm, his accent quite heavy. “Unsullied do as you asked. We took statue to blacksmith. He works on it now. We came across Second Sons ambassadors on way back.”

Hizdahr nodded politely. “We have returned, your grace.”

“It took forever, that mission. Did you miss us?” Daario grinned cockily.

Dany’s lips curled upward. “I’m glad you’ve both returned. I trust everything went well in Astapor and Yunkai?”

He winked. “Nothing to worry about. We handled it. Though, it seems like things haven’t been doing too well while we were gone. We heard about the earthquake, and the clean up looks rough. Still, you look like you’re handling things well, Daenerys Stormborn.”

Dany’s eyes twinkled as she nodded. Daario was a flirt, but his roguish charms were like a breath of fresh air. As a queen, the men around her had to be loyal and respectful. As a conquerer, they had to be aware of her strength so there had to be a touch of fear as well. That Daario cared little about any of that was both annoying and refreshing. And he was good in bed, that was undeniable. Always eager to please her needs… And it didn’t matter how many times they tumbled in bed together. She had no reason not to since she couldn’t have children.

“I’m glad to hear that. So the councils in both cities are willing to accept the end of slavery?”

Hizdahr nodded. “They have, your grace. They have agreed to your rulership and shall send all important matters to you for review.”

“Good.”

“However… they do ask for some concessions.”

Dany’s smile immediately became quite fixed. “Concessions?”

Hizdahr opened his mouth to explain, but he quickly closed it in bewilderment when Grey Worm stepped in front of him, his expression quite tight.

“My queen, I am sorry for interrupting, but my men came across something else while on our way here. I must tell you immediately.”

At this, Dany straightened considerably. “What is it? Has there been any sign of Drogon?”

“No. There was an attack on one of my men. He was off-duty. We found him dead.”

Dany’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Missandei and Barristan were equally surprised.

“…Was the person responsible captured?” she finally asked, eyes steely. “Any attack on one of you is an attack on me. I will not permit such a heinous act to go unpunished.”

Grey Worm shook his head. “No sign of those responsible.”

“They did leave behind a calling card, though,” said Daario, reaching into the small pouch strapped around his waist. “For you.”

He pulled out a mask made entirely out of gold, with great horns carved out of its sides like the many harpy statues situated throughout the city. Flashing it back and forth between his hands so everyone could see it, he hopped up the platform steps two at a time and handed it to her.

“They… They also left a message for you, your grace,” said Hizdahr, sounding rather nervous. “It was left for you on the walls of the… _building_ the man was found in.”

Daario snorted. “What? You’re too shy to tell it to her straight? Brothel. We found him in a brothel.”

Missandei’s brows furrowed and Barristan blinked in confusion, but Dany wore her queenly mask well, allowing no one to guess her innermost thoughts. “What did the message say?”

Grey Worm’s eyes narrowed, the muscles in his face tightening with suppressed rage. “‘Mhysa is a master. Sons of Harpy free Meereen from her chains.’”

“It… It was written in the man’s blood,” Hizdahr added hesitantly.

Silence. Complete silence. Dany’s fury radiated off her in waves. No one dared to so much as breathe loudly as they absorbed the full extent of their queens’ rage.

“Grey Worm,” she said slowly, her voice low and hard. “I would like for any able-bodied Unsullied in your ranks that is not otherwise busy with rebuilding the city to be patrolling the streets. Find the man or men responsible for this and bring him to me.”

“At once, my queen,” he said, bowing low.

“Everyone else? Gather together in the council chambers, and Missandei? Please send for Mossador. We need to discuss what will be done in regards to this heinous act.”

Missandei nodded. “Yes, your grace, but what about the court sessions?”

Dany’s anger faded a bit at the question, and she sighed in regret. “I’m ending early for the day. Would you also please extend my apologies to those who are still waiting out in the reception hall? Have everyone provided with additional food rations as compensation for not being able to see them today.”

Daario grinned and swaggered forward importantly. “I can take care of that. The Second Sons can pass out the food.”

“Very well, thank you Daario.”

“Perhaps I should accompany him, your grace?” Hizdahr suggested. “I could speak on your behalf, quell the complaints from the citizens.”

“Any other day I would agree that would be a wise idea, but I have another matter I need to discuss with you, Hizdahr,” Dany proclaimed, rising from her small bench. “An idea for rebuilding the city that you might be able to assist with.”

“Of course, your grace. I’d be happy to help.”

“Follow me, then. I’ll expect everyone in the council chambers within the next half hour.”

Nodding and bowing acquiescently to the Mother of Dragons, everyone parted as they hurried to fulfill their queens’ orders.

* * *

There was a crack in the floor. A long, jagged crack that ran deep into the tiles. Exactly six other thinner cracks were adjacent to it. One main crack, six adjacent cracks. Seven all together. He knew that because he’d counted them.

He’d counted them exactly seventy-seven times since he’d sat down in this seemingly neverending line.

Torrhen gritted his teeth together as he stared intensely at the main crack. Focusing on that instead of how much he was drumming his fingers on his thigh was the only thing stopping him from getting up and hobbling out of this ridiculously long line. He was hot, he was tired, his ankle still hurt, he was worried about Shadow, and more anything, he was done with sitting around. He’d been stuck in this line for over three hours at this point, and during the past ten minutes, the line hadn’t even budged. How long was he going to have to wait to see his future mother? He reckoned there were only another ten or so people still ahead of him now. He was nearly there! So why wasn’t the line moving?

Snarling to himself, Torrhen tore his eyes away from the stupid crack and pulled his lute onto his lap. “Ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous…” he muttered. “What’s taking so long?!”

At that moment, a dark-haired young man with a thick goatee and leather armor emerged from the hall that led to where the queen was holding court. Everyone else in line glanced at him curiously, but Torrhen ignored him. He looked like a typical sellsword, no one in important. He wasn’t one of the Unsullied and he certainly wasn’t the Mother of Dragons. He wasn’t worth paying attention to.

Huffing in contempt, Torrhen slouched back against the wall and idly plucked a random lute string. A single note rang out from his instrument, low yet strong. Feeling the familiar twang of the string between his fingers normally brought him relief, but right now he was too impatient and annoyed to feel much of anything regarding his lute. Ironic, considering when he and Lyaella were first gifted their lute and lyre by Ser Davos for their sixth nameday, they had been beyond thrilled. Their father’s former hand to the king had always been so kind to them, the only person the two of them had ever known who had never criticized them for embracing both sides of their heritage in their own way: Never actively promote their Targaryen blood but don’t hide it either, and despite how much they hated the only three surviving Starks, be proud of that their father upheld the forgotten values of the late Eddard Stark more than any of his siblings. He was against what their mother had done to King’s Landing during her war for the Iron Throne, but he personally believed she had been a good person despite that lapse in judgment. He had known their father and told them stories about how he was the most honorable man he’d ever met after the death of Stannis Baratheon, and how it still pained him, the way he died.

Despite how the memorial service that year had been a downer like it always was, that nameday when they received their instruments was the second-best nameday the twins ever had. The year before was the only other nameday that topped it, the only time Torrhen could actually recall having a nameday that felt like a nameday was supposed to feel like in terms of simply being happy. But the months that followed that wonderful nameday? Terrible. Just plain terrible, considering what had happened. Worst time in their lives, what happened that year…

Torrhen squeezed his eyes shut, clutching the neck of his lute tightly in both hands. The North remembers, that’s how the saying went. He and Lyaella hated remembering what happened back then, but they were Northerners. Remembering terrible events was part of their stupid Northern heritage. They couldn’t forget no matter how much they wanted to, how much they should have been allowed to be angry with their fucking relatives for what happened had they only been ordinary people instead of Northern royalty. It was horrible time for himself and Lyaella, learning for themselves just how cruel their goddamn relatives truly were. They lost any form of love they previously had or would ever have for their bitchy aunts and empty headed uncle after that. What they’d done to their parents, to _them…_ unforgivable. It was all unforgivable. Had it not been for Ser Davos coming to Winterfell in the following months for their sixth nameday to give them their lute and lyre, Torrhen had no idea how he and Lyaella would have gotten through that awful period.

But now that he was back in the past, everything could change. He was going to change things for the better. His parents were going to live this time around. His mother would sit on the Iron Throne. His father was going to rule alongside her. And the bloodthirsty wolves were going to have to kill him first if they dared to tear them apart. It didn’t matter that he was alone aside from Shadow. Wherever Lyaella and Sōnar were in this current era, he knew they’d feel the same way.

“Winter is coming, House Stark,” he growled under his breath. “House Targaryen will bring the dawn, with fire and blood.”

The words had scarcely left him when he was jolted out of his thoughts by the furious shouts of those in line around him.

_“Jaeli naejot ūndegon se dāria!”_

“We’ve been waiting for hours!”

_“Skoro syt iksis ziry avoiding īlva?!”_

“What’s going on?! We have a right to know!”

“Settle down, settle down. The queen is sorry, all right?”

At the mention of ‘queen,’ Torrhen shot to attention. Draping his cloak over the arm holding his lute, he used the wall behind him as additional support as he carefully stood up, being mindful of his bad ankle. He looked around curiously. It was hard to see anything considering he was so short and almost everyone in line were tall adults blocking his view, but he managed to limp his way forward a few paces to poke his head through a small gap in between bodies to see what was happening. The dark-haired sellsword was in the center of the room now and calling out to everyone. Many other sellswords accompanied him. While a handful kept their hands on the pommels of their weapons strapped to their waists in the event the crowd became a violent mob, the majority of them were passing out fat loaves of bread to those in line.

“The queen is sorry, but an urgent matter has happened and she has to end the court sessions early today,” announced the leader. “She knows lots of you have been here waiting for hours, and she wants all of you to be compensated for your time. Extra bread, people! Everyone gets a loaf!”

While a handful in line were grumbling to themselves, the compensation of extra food rations was enough to placate the crowd. Aside from the few of the more stubborn citizens, everyone else was thankful for the queen’s generosity and gratefully accepted the bread the sellswords passed out.

Everyone was happy… except for one boy, that is.

Torrhen stared, frozen, at the sellsword leader that made the announcement. No… no, no, no! His mother couldn’t end her court session. Not now. Not when he hadn’t even seen her yet! How many people were still in line ahead of him exactly? He whipped his head around, eyes wild and frantic as he mutely counted the number of people who were still in front of him. Twelve. Twelve people were still ahead of him, so he was the thirteenth in line. That wasn’t that many. All she had to do was wait to decide this until after he’d introduced himself. Why was this happening now?!

No… this was someone’s idea of a bad joke. He did not travel all this way back in time, become separated from his twin sister and their dragon, painfully dragged himself halfway across this scorching hot city on a half-healed sprained ankle, and then sit here in this ridiculously long line for over _three hours_ just to be told he wasted his time! That was bullshit!

He didn’t give two shits what that sellsword said. He was going in there if it was the last thing he did. He was going to see the queen whether he and those other mercenaries liked it or not.

He was going to meet his mother. Now. Not in a few days when his ankle was fully better. Not tomorrow when court would open again. Now. Today. This very minute!

Torrhen’s eyes narrowed into thin slits as he shoved his way through the tightly packed line of people. A few people grumbled at him as he pushed past, but he didn’t pause in his stride. He was focused on one thing, and one thing only: the open archway leading to the audience chamber. He was going to walk into that hallway and see his future mother. No one was going to stop him.

“Oi, you! Get back in line,” called out one of the mercenaries. Torrhen’s felt his eye twinge. The world really wanted to test his patience today, didn’t it?! “You’ll get your loaf soon—”

“I’m not here for bread!” Torrhen snapped. Ignoring the random sellsword, he moved as fast as he could on his bad ankle to the entryway. Sadly, he wasn’t fast enough. He had barely moved more than three feet away from the man when he felt a hand clamp it’s way onto his shoulder.

“Woah, there! Where do you think you’re going, kid?”

He looked back. The sellsword captain was the one who stopped him this time. For some reason, the cocky grin on his lips coupled with that bold glint in his eyes made Torrhen’s blood boil even hotter.

“To the very person I’ve been waiting in line three hours to see!” he snapped. “I’m going to see the queen!”

He tried to shove aside the mans’ hand and continue trudging forward, but the fingers tightened around his shoulder.

“Aw, come on, kid. Ease up,” he chuckled. “The Mother of Dragons has a real crisis on her hands right now. She sends her apologies. Here—” he plucked a loaf of bread from the basket of one of his fellow sellswords who passing by “—take a loaf and get going. Share it with your family. I’m sure they’ll be thankful.”

A vein pulsed in his neck. His nostrils flared, his clenched fists quivering. His family? This conceited jerk was the only thing still barring him from meeting his only nearby family! Every inch of Torrhen’s body was fighting the urge to scream and rage. He had to. He had to control his anger. He was furious by what was going on, but he wasn’t going to make a scene beyond shoving his way inside.

“I don’t have time for this,” he said finally, teeth clenched hard. “I’m not here because of the earthquake! I’m only in Meereen to meet Daenerys Targaryen! I came all the way from Westeros! I’ve gotta get in there!”

The sellsword only looked further amused. “Oh? You’re a Westerosi runaway? Came here to meet and pledge your sword to the true queen’s cause?” he teased.

“What?! No! I’m—”

“Kid, I can guarantee our queen won’t be pleased to see you like this, acting all angry and demanding. Come back tomorrow when you’ve calmed down.” Shoving the bread roll in the young boys’ hands, the sellsword captain waved over one of his men who had nearly finished passing out all the loaves in his basket. “Get him out of here.”

“Right away, Captain Naharis. Come on, kid. Get moving.”

The massive brute seized Torrhen’s free arm and started dragging him off, not caring at all how the boy whimpered in pain with every step he was forced to make on his bad ankle just to keep up. They were officially making a scene now and drawing stares from numerous citizens still waiting to receive bread rations, but Torrhen didn’t care. He was in too much pain from his ankle, and he was steaming from how he was being dragged away like a toddler. He wanted to start yelling and shouting curses at that conceited jerk for how he’d brushed him aside and let his anger roam free. But he didn’t. He ignored the fiery instincts, shoving them deep inside himself despite how his heartbeat was pounding hard and fast inside his skull, raging at him to let his anger run free. He had to. He’d heard what this second mercenary had called his leader.

Captain Naharis. That arrogant sellsword over there was none other than Daario Naharis, the captain of the Second Sons. He was one of his mother’s top ranked generals while she ruled Meereen. He could help him, take him directly to his future mother. The only reason why he wasn’t now was because he hadn’t really explained who he was or why it was so crucial that he meet her immediately!

Bracing himself for the inevitable rush of pain, Torrhen spun around, swiftly sank his teeth into the exposed skin of the Second Son mercenary dragging him off, and audibly yelped as he hopped fast onto his bad ankle long enough to harshly kick the man’s knee with his good foot before he could recover from the bite.

_“Argh! Fuck! Fucking seven hells!”_

Torrhen didn’t waste any time. Yanking his arm out of the whiny man’s grasp, he limped away from him as fast as he could. Anyone who hadn’t already been staring at him before was now officially gawking at him. Even Daario blinked in disbelief.

“What the fuck, kid?! Are you insa—”

“My name is Torrhen! Torrhen Snow!” he cried out desperately. “I’m a Targaryen bastard!”

Silence. Dead silence. No one said anything. No sharp intakes of breath. No astonished, hushed whisperings amongst those in attendance. No indication whatsoever that anyone had possibly dropped something in shock. Just complete, total silence.

Torrhen swallowed thickly as he stared up at Daario. Everything was riding on this moment. The past. The future. His and Lyaella’s hopes of ever having a real family some day. Saying he was nervous would be a vast understatement.

“Please,” he begged, his voice trembling. “I need to see the queen. She needs to know that I’m here. That she’s not alone. If you’re really Daario Naharis, then you’re the commander of her sellswords. You’ve… You’ve gotta go tell her I’m out here! You’ve gotta help me!”

All was quiet once again in the waiting hall as everyone slowly turned to stare at the man in question. Daario didn’t appear the slightest bit phased by all the eyes on him, though. He just kept staring at Torrhen with wide eyes, expression otherwise vacant.

Then, without warning, his chest started quivering. His shoulders soon followed. And then his lower lip. Seconds later, he doubled over and hugged his sides as he burst out laughing. Following his cue, everyone else there, civilian and mercenary, started laughing themselves.

Torrhen jerked, shocked by the insulting reaction. “Stop that! I’m not lying! I’m a Targaryen bastard! Honest!”

His words made Daario laugh so hard he started slapping at his knees. “Sure! Sure you… you are kid!” he wheezed. He could barely even get the words out. “Yeah, you’re a… a long lost Targaryen prince…! And Old Valyria is a summer paradise!”

His words made half the people in the hall roar even harder, some even falling to their knees as they hugged their sides. Seeing their reactions was more than enough for Torrhen’s face to puff red, flames as hot as Sōnar’s dragonfire in his heated glare.

“I’m not lying, and I’m no prince!” he spat, disgusted. “Take me to the queen! Please!”

Wiping away a few tears in his eyes, Daario managed to control his laughter enough to straighten up and look at him. “Look, kid. I don’t know what rock you’ve been living under all your life, but the queen is the last Targaryen, and they all had silver hair. You must think I’m an idiot.”

“You _are_ an idiot! You’re an idiot because you’re not listening to me! I can prove it! I have—”

“Get him out of here. Make sure he stays out.”

Torrhen yelped and accidentally dropped his lute, cloak, and loaf of bread as the sellsword from before snatched him up and draped him over his shoulder as though carrying a sack of flour before heading toward the exit to the Great Pyramid. Another sellsword hurried forward, collecting his things and following them out.

“Put me down! Put me down, asshole!” Torrhen screamed, squirming as hard as he could while hitting the mans’ back with both his fists and doing this best to kick him in the front with his one good foot. “I have to meet Daenerys Targaryen! Put me down!”

His antics earned him a semi-hard whack upside the head by the the pissed brute. “Knock it off, brat!”

Torrhen growled. Kicked the man firmly in the jaw one last time for good measure, he focused his attention back on Daario. The arrogant ass was staring after him with that utterly annoying grin back on his face. His control exploded at the sight of it.

“You made a big mistake today, Daario Naharis! I’m gonna meet the queen, and when I do, I’m—”

* * *

_The black wolf panted happily, tail swaying back and forth. The curly-haired boy laughed and threw a stick. It shot off after it, quick as a flash._

* * *

_The two small children peeked around the door. There they were in front of the crackling fireplace, all three of them. The bloodthirsty wolves. Carrying on like always, without remorse._

* * *

_The little girl cautiously stepped outside and looked around. Seeing no one out and about in the snowy courtyard, she opened the door wider and motioned her friend to follow. The dragon warbled as it stepped out beside her, nosing her silver hair affectionately with her snout. She laughed._

* * *

“—gonna tell her _exactly_ what you— huh?!”

Torrhen blinked rapidly, anger all but evaporating. The sudden quick flashes he’d just witnessed made his head spin. What in the world?

“Oi! You got something you wanna share, brat?! If you don’t have the balls to finish threatening the Captain, don’t think I’m gonna care about your empty threats!”

The boy tensed, only now becoming aware of his immediate surroundings. The sellsword was still carrying him and the other still had his belongings, but Daario Naharis was no longer in his field of vision because they were now exiting the Great Pyramid. Torrhen’s head whipped around wildly as he took in everything going on across the street, his thoughts a disoriented jumble. Only a second ago he’d been yelling at the arrogant leader of the Second Sons, but then that mess of thoughts happened out of the blue, and now they were suddenly outside.

It had all been instantaneous to him, and that meant only one thing. Still, there was no way he could know for sure unless someone confirmed it.

“Hey, can you two tell me how long I—?” Torrhen’s words died on the tip of his tongue as the man carrying him dumped him on the ground without warning. He cried out as he landed in the dirt. _“Ow!”_

“For the love all things holy, kid! Shut up!” snapped the mercenary. “Shut up like you did five seconds ago!”

The other sellsword nodded, deliberately dropping the boy’s possessions on the ground as opposed to on his lap. “Mouth off again and I’ll cut that flapping tongue of yours right out of your mouth!”

Torrhen fumed. Rising unsteadily to his feet despite his ankle, he fumbled for his training sword. “Try it! You’re not mutilating me without a fight, shithead!”

“Have it your way, then!”

Both of the sellswords reached for their blades, but there was a sudden loud snarl followed by a blur of black fur. Shadow’s red eyes were wild as he leapt in between his boy and the mercenaries. He pawed the ground repeatedly, hackles raised as he bared his fangs and growled.

The sellsword that had just threatened Torrhen shrieked in terror as he fell over on his bottom, crawling backwards several paces. The other sputtered in alarm, quickly drawing his sword and holding it out shakily between himself and Shadow with both hands.

Torrhen smirked. “What’s wrong? Never seen a half-grown direwolf before?” he asked.

Neither said anything. They just stared, jaws dropped and eyes bulging, at the raging black beast in front of them, ready to sink its teeth into one of them should they make any sudden moves.

Torrhen chuckled as he hopped over to his things. “That’s Shadow. He’s my direwolf. Direwolves are from beyond the Wall in Westeros,” he told them innocently, focusing on wiping away the bits of dust clinging to his bread rather than looking at the sellswords as he spoke. “They’re almost extinct now, but everyone knows they’re more dangerous than other wolves. They’re just as smart as people. And when they bond with someone, they bond for life. They don’t take kindly to someone threatening their human.”

The sellswords eyes darted quickly darted to one another before back to Shadow and then to each other again. With a wordless nod, the one holding up his sword cautiously sheathed it, and the other visibly trembled as he rose up.

“Just… Just go. Tell that wolf to back off and go.”

“Yeah. Get out of here, kid. You and that… that beast.”

Torrhen scowled. “I’m not leaving. Not until I meet the queen.”

“Not happening, kid. Not our decision.”

“We… We listen to what Captain Daario tells us. He told us to kick you out. We did as he asked.”

“But I _have_ to see—!”

“Try again another day, kid! Now call off your wolf! It looks ready to eat us!”

Torrhen huffed, blowing a loose curl out of his eyes. It was clear they weren’t going to listen to him. If not even Shadow could make them step aside, nothing would. He was just wasting his time now. “Down, Shadow.”

Growling one last time for good measure, the black direwolf gradually calmed. His fur flattened down to its usual resting place and his fangs pulled back into his mouth. His ears remained pulled back in warning though, and his red eyes remained locked on the Second Sons mercenaries in case they tried anything. But they didn’t. As soon as Shadow lowered his guard, they bolted back inside the Great Pyramid without another word.

“Assholes. Hope they get stuck doing the shit jobs in the rebuilding projects,” Torrhen muttered to himself. Shaking his head a bit, he turned to glance down at his direwolf brother. “Thanks, Shadow. You did great. Those jerks deserved a good scare.”

Shadow lightly panted, his pink tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth as his boy happily petted him. Tail wagging happily, he peppered Torrhen’s hand in slobbery kisses before curiously turning his head to the loaf of bread in his other hand.

Torrhen initially laughed, but then a thought suddenly occurred to him and his smile fell. “No, boy. That’s not a treat. If anything… that’s gonna be our dinner. For the next few days, probably.”

Shadow blinked and cocked his head to the side, almost looking genuinely curious.

The boy sighed. Draping his cloak over his arm again and passing his lute to Shadow to carry, Torrhen motioned for his friend to follow him as he started limping down the street. “I didn’t get to meet her, bud. The queen. I didn’t. I got thrown out before I could see her. The guards wouldn’t listen to me. We’re on our own for now, Shadow. Just you and me. And since we don’t have any money… that’s all the food we’ve got. We’re gonna have to make it last.”

A low whine escaped Shadow’s throat. He nudged his boy lightly with his wet nose as they kept walking.

Torrhen half-heartedly smiled. “Thanks, pal. I know you’re on my side. With our sisters gone, I’d really be alone if you weren’t here. And speaking of Lyaella and Sōnar, I know they’re okay. At least… At least I _think_ they are.”

Shadow looked up at him again, intrigued.

Pausing momentarily to hop out of the way of some freedmen wheeling carts of rubble down the dirt path, Torrhen bit his lip and continued. “My fire flickered again, boy. You know how it is for me when that happens. Only this time… this time something really weird happened. It seemed instantaneous to me like usual, don’t get me wrong. But I also… I also saw stuff.”

Shadow was a good listener. He didn’t gasp or furrow his brows in disbelief like a person would have at such a statement. He simply blinked his red eyes curiously and waited for Torrhen to continue.

Ducking into a debris-filled alley to get out of the way of the busy streets, Torrhen slowly stumbled over to a rather large piece of rubble that was both flat and large enough for him to sit on. Once he was settled, he dumped his stuff next to him and sighed.

“Maybe I’m wrong and I imagined something. I’ve never really been able to comprehend anything during a fire flicker before, but I guess it’s possible. I don’t know… And it all happened so fast!” he added, waving his arms around to emphasize. “I didn’t get the chance to absorb everything, but… but I saw things happening. Moments, really. But not whole events… Sorry, am I not explaining this well, boy?”

Shadow evidently didn’t understand. Torrhen could tell. After all, if his direwolf did understand what he was trying to say, he would be listening attentively, not currently circling around himself in place and curling himself up into a perfect ball to nap in a shady spot at his feet.

Snorting humorously to himself, Torrhen gave him a quick scratch behind the ears before slouching backwards to lean up against the wall of the building behind him.

“There was a boy with a wolf like you, Shadow. A black one! And the boy had curly hair. They were playing. I don’t think it was us, though. Then… Then it was like looking at myself. I saw me and Lya. It was only for a second, but I think… I think it was _that_ day I saw.”

Shadow’s ears perked up at that, and he quickly open one red eye. A low growl escaped his throat. Torrhen wasn’t concerned though. He knew why his friend was growling. The memories of that day were enough to make him want to growl too.

“Then… Then I saw Lyaella and Sōnar together. They looked fine. They were in some empty courtyard somewhere. It was all snowy. I think they’re somewhere in the North, Shadow. I don’t know where, exactly, but I could tell she’s safe. She and Sōnar both are.”

Shadow relaxed at that statement and settled down again after a few licks to his fingers. Torrhen smiled. He was glad Shadow was relieved to hear they were okay. He himself was relieved. It was a weight off the boys’ shoulders knowing he didn’t have to worry about her accidentally being stuck in the future without him or possibly kidnapped by someone against either House Stark or House Targaryen in the past. He still had to figure out where she was, that was a top priority, but he was happy to know she and their dragon were both okay.

Still… he didn’t know what the heck all that had been about. Was his fire flicker developing a new twist? If so, why now? Why now when he was stuck in the past without Lyaella and Sōnar? No one other than his sister had ever believed him about his fire flickers. If she were here, he knew she’d understand. She’d be just as puzzled about it as he was, but she would try to figure out whatever it was that he saw. She was the smart between them, after all. Him? He was a fighter, through and through. He had to be. She was so shy and meek, and couldn’t fight well at all. Someone had to protect her whenever Sōnar or Shadow couldn’t.

He had no idea what happened to him, but if it was just a one-time occurrence, then he was glad that it showed him his sister was safe. At least one of them were, considering his current circumstances.

Chuckling dryly, Torrhen stared up at the sky. “Alone on the streets with only my direwolf, lute, training sword, and one measly loaf of bread. No money, and no clue at all now how I’m gonna meet my future mother… and I don't know the local language. Fantastic prospects for changing history for the better!”

What in the name of all the gods out there was he going to do?


	7. Dragon Stuck in Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Leap Day, everyone!
> 
> Today marks the day on all our calendars that comes once every four years! We all get an additional 24 hours, and I'm a firm believer in doing something fun and productive during this extra day. Well, what could be more fun or productive than posting the long awaited Chapter 7 of my story, lol?!
> 
> I sincerely apologize to you all for taking an entire month to get this chapter finished and posted here online. It's just that my freelance art commission took WAY TOO LONG TO FINISH! Seriously! Every time I finished one aspect of the digital painting, my client would need me to tweak it a bit so it could fit his vision. Mental note to self - familiarize myself in how to digitally paint skin. Aside from little tweaks here and there now and then due to my clients requests, painting the skin layer on the digital portrait took waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too long to do, and to be honest, I'm not entirely happy with how it looks. Still, I needed to get paid for my work, so I submitted it just yesterday. With any luck, my client will be happy with how the overall painting came out and won't need me to change anything further.
> 
> So having finished and turned in my freelance commission yesterday morning, the first I did afterwards was head straight to my laptop to finish writing the last portion of this chapter. Seriously, I may be overdue on this chapter, but I did NOT forget about it for even a second this past month! Whenever I wasn't busy with my art commission or just needed to unwind from it, I was always writing. The problem was simply my writing time got cut down because of my commission, hence why it's taken me so long to finish it. Yesterday, though? Yesterday, I did NOTHING BUT WRITE in order to finish this chapter so as to get it online today! I wanted to not only get it up online sometime during the month of February in order to show that I posted a chapter this month, but I also wanted to get it online now. Today - Leap Day! Like I said, we all get an additional 24 hours this year. We should do something worthwhile during that time. Well, consider this chapter my way of making today worthwhile! Take some time out today on February 29th of 2020 to read this new chapter, lol!
> 
> But please note, because of my rush to finish this chapter and get it online today, I did not edit it before posting. Whether or not I will later or just move on to writing an outline for my plans for chapter 8 is something I have yet to decide...
> 
> Now, onto the current stats for the story! I'm so proud of you all! We have reached a stat count of 231 kudos, 63 bookmarks, 5390 views, and we reached the comment goal again at 110 comments exactly! Woohoo! My readers on FanFiction sadly didn't make it to 110 with the last chapter, but you guys did! I'm very proud of you Ao3 readers! The question remains though, can we reach it three times in a row? I'm hoping we can! The new comment goal for this new chapter is 125! That's not too bad, I think. It's only fifteen more comments. Come on, let's all go for it! 125 people! Let's all tell ourselves to comment when we're done reading to make it to 125!
> 
> I think that's everything for now. I've kept you all waiting for this new chapter long enough. I don't want to keep you waiting any longer, lol!
> 
> Enjoy this new chapter! Have a great Leap Day, and please comment when you're done!
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> \- Elphaba818

“We should kill her now and be done with it!”

“Are you crazy?! She’s got a dragon!”

“That’s no dragon! That’s just a lizard the size of a horse! We can kill it easily and then her!”

“You’re mad! It’ll kill us all before we can blink! Let’s just throw them back out beyond the Wall!”

“She’s only a child. She’ll die if we do that.”

“Well, she’s clearly a Wildling bastard of some long-forgotten Targaryen descent! She’s not our problem!”

“How many times do we have to tell yeh damn crows? We’ve nothin’ to do with that kid!”

“She’s not ours. We ain’t never seen her before.”

The Main Hall was the largest room in all of Castle Black, but during times when the Night’s Watch was in disarray over a particular matter and everyone was at each other’s throats, it had a tendency of seeming way too small. Today was one of those times. Everyone was crammed inside the mess hall and packed so tightly that literally no one had any personal space. Every shout bounced around the room and echoed back even louder, and despite it being freezing cold outside, everyone’s combined body heat made the air feel unusually hot and stuffy. And to make matters worse, the Night’s Watch weren’t the only ones inside the lodge.

Stannis had invited himself, his wife, two advisers, and a few important officers in his army to attend this meeting as well despite there really not being enough space left for them. They managed to squeeze themselves in, though. They stood off to the sidelines and merely observed the proceedings without comment so far. In addition to them, Thorne had personally insisted on having Mance and Tormund brought in as well, to question them about the unexpected guest currently being housed within their walls. Unlike Stannis, Thorne refused to believe the Wildlings had never seen the child before. He wanted answers as to where she came from, and he’d do whatever it took to get them. Considering she’d been found on the outskirts of the Wildlings war camp, it made sense that she’d been with them even if she wasn’t dressed like them. Mance and Tormund were both tied up as they sat at the edge of a bench close to the High Table, Tormund glaring daggers at everyone while Mance simply sat there, impassive. It didn’t matter how many times Thorne demanded that they tell them what they knew, their answer stayed the same: they’d never seen nor met Lyaella Snow before.

Jon watched silently in his seat as his fellow brothers argued back and forth. It had been a week now since he first discovered the mysterious little girl and her dragon beyond the Wall and brought them back to Castle Black, and since then, she refused to leave the safety of Maester Aemon’s workroom. She had effectively barricaded herself inside the chamber and never opened the door except for when people brought her meals. She wouldn’t let the kind maester back inside to sleep, nor would she open the door when people brought her food. She would deliberately wait until they left a tray for her outside the door before hesitantly bringing it inside.

Everyone let this go at first. It was clear the girl was simply too afraid to come out and talk to all of them, and aside from how Maester Aemon had to temporarily relocate to where everyone else bunked at night, she wasn’t causing any trouble. Nor was her dragon, as it stayed with her inside. But after six days of her self-imposed isolation, Thorne decided enough was enough. Just last night he ordered a random steward to wait for her to come out to collect a new food tray and stop her from rushing back in. The steward tried, but when the girl screamed upon seeing him, her dragon burst out of the room with a mighty roar. It scared the shit out of not only the steward, but everyone out in the courtyard at the time. The girl didn’t even bother taking the tray with her. She simply scrambled back inside the workroom and screamed at her dragon to hurry inside too before slamming the door shut. No one dared to go up and try again today, and nor did she try coming out to ask for a tray when no one brought her one.

Hence why everyone had gathered together this morning. Lyaella Snow was an anomaly, but unless she was willing to come out of that room and answer all their questions about who she was and where she came from, then they had to do something about her. Her very existence had so many ramifications, many of which were political. But they were the Night’s Watch. They weren’t supposed to take sides in political matters. No one could come to a clear consensus on what to do about her.

As the acting-Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Thorne was seated at the High Table along with the other acting officers and Maester Aemon. He banged his fist several times on the wooden surface as he rose from his seat. “All right, all right!” he called. “Quiet down, all of you!” Gradually, all the noise in the room softened down to a low lull. Once it was quiet enough, he continued. “Good. Now, one at a time!”

A middle-aged ranger stepped forward, his eyes wild and hatred radiating off him in waves. “Ser Alliser, it’s obvious what we ought to do here! That dragon is barely the size of a horse! If we all went at it together, we could take it on! Let’s kill it first and send her head in a basket to the Lannister’s! Maybe then we’ll get actual provisions and help from the crown!”

“Or the Bolton’s!” added a builder. “We deliver her to the Warden of the North, and they’ll send dozens of recruits to us overnight!”

Those in support of the ideas murmured their agreement, but the vast majority of the Night’s Watch stayed silent. Jon was relieved about that. He didn’t have any attachment to the little girl and didn’t know what her story was, but he definitely didn’t think killing her was the right course of action. She was only a child. Children aren’t supposed to be blamed for the actions of adults.

“If the Night’s Watch chooses one of those options, you’ll be spitting on the generosity of the rightful king,” called out a general from Stannis’ army. Everyone turned. “His grace rode North to help the Night’s Watch. He’s the only reason the Wildling army didn’t slaughter all of you. You send that dragon girl to the very family that is sitting upon his throne, and you’ll all be traitors to the one true king! And that goes double if you send her to the Bolton’s!”

Tormund glared hatefully at the man from his seat. “Yer king is a coward!” he growled. “Didn’t bother showin’ his face ‘til the battle was over! Real men fight with their armies! I could take ‘im on right here! Watch me!”

The generals’ hand flew to the pommel of his sword. “Lay one finger on the king, and I’ll cut you in half!” If looks could kill, the soldier would have been dead three times over from the murderous look in Tormund’s eyes.

“That’s enough. Stand down,” Stannis said shortly. The soldier wordlessly bent his head and stepped back. With all eyes in the room now on him, Stannis turned to glance at Thorne. “I apologize for the brazenness of my commander, but I also agree with his assessment. If you can’t come to an agreement over what to do with the Targaryen child, then I request you turn her over to me. I’ll deal with her as I see fit.”

Those in favor of House Baratheon in the Night’s Watch banged their mugs excitedly on the tables.

“Let’s do that! He’s the rightful king!”

“All dragons go mad! Better for stags to rule!”

Jon’s stomach twisted uneasily as more men voiced their agreement, and he couldn’t help but sigh as he stared into his mug of ale. Lyaella was just a child. Stannis would undoubtedly kill her if the Night’s Watch handed her over. Did he make a mistake bringing her here?

_BANG!_

The hall fell silent as Thorne rose from his seat, his cheeks swelling red and whole body quivering with rage.

“We must all agree on what to do with that girl, and until we reach a unanimous decision, we will not be handing her over to anyone! _Have I made myself clear?!”_

No one dared to disagree. Jon couldn’t blame them. He knew Thorne had been a Targaryen loyalist back in his day, but how he reacted to the idea of handing the little girl to Stannis was nothing short of shocking.

Appeased by the sudden silence, Thorne turned to address Stannis. “I am well aware that your army saved the Watch from the Wildlings, and we’re grateful,” he said gruffly, civility obviously forced, “but every man here has sworn to steer clear of the politics of the Seven Kingdoms. We’re not required to hand her over to you, and if we don’t, you’re not allowed to raise your army against us.”

Stannis’ priestess Melisandre stepped forward. “That child and her dragon are blessings from the Lord of Light,” she countered politely. “Stannis is the Prince that was Promised, Azor Ahai reborn. He is destined to save the world from everlasting darkness with Lightbringer. The fact that this young girl and her dragon were discovered in the same vicinity as the rightful king upon his arrival is a clear sign that the Lord wanted her to join him. It is his will.”

The former knight scowled. “If your Red God has a problem with my decision, he can tell me himself. I don’t care what you or your king believe about your fire visions, but this is a matter regarding what’s best for the Night’s Watch. Don’t going spewing any nonsense about the Lord’s will.”

Melisandre merely smiled. “Everything is the Lord’s will. It matters not if you have little faith in R’hollor. In the end, everyone is where they are for a reason.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Thorne turned away from her to look back out at everyone else. “Getting back to the main point, we need to figure out where this girl came from. And since she’s not cooperating with us, we have to get answers from the only other ones who can tell us about her.” His eyes flashed immediately to Mance. “Tell us what you know about that child. _Now.”_

The King Beyond the Wall had been entirely silent up until this point, which only made his snort of amusement all the more surprising as everyone stared at him. “I already have,” he said rather simply. “She’s not mine.”

“Rubbish. She was found in _your_ war camp, with _your_ army. She might not be dressed in your Wildling furs, but she was with your people. Explain that!”

Mance smirked. “I can’t. I don’t know how she got in my war camp without anyone seein’, let alone with a dragon. I’ve got my own questions about that.”

Thorne shook his head, teeth grinding together in his suppressed fury. “And you expect us to believe that?!”

Tormund shot to his feet. “Yeh judgin’ us like yeh Southerner’s?! We’re honest, unlike yer lot!”

Mance nodded. “Yeh can keep askin’ us ‘til the Wall comes crashin’ down, and it won’t change our answer. She’s not ours. Our people were just as shocked as yers were when yeh first met her.”

Thorne still didn’t look entirely appeased, but Jon knew the only reason why he wasn’t pushing them further was because other members of the Watch were exchanging uneasy murmurs and irritated sighs. They somewhat believed Mance and Tormund that they honestly had never met the girl or her dragon before. Unless everyone believed that the Wildlings were lying, he wasn’t going to win himself any positive points as to why he was a good leader for when the upcoming election happened by screaming himself hoarse at their prisoners.

Sighing to himself, Thorne turned back to the rest of the room. “Does anyone have any other possible ideas on what to do with the Targaryen child?”

There was a brief pause, but then — to everyone’s surprise, Jon’s especially — Sam slowly stood up.

“Ser Alliser? What if we tried contacting old Targaryen supporters here in Westeros?” he asked. “The Martell’s hold no love for House Lannister after what happened to the late Princess Elia and her children. If we sent them a raven about Lyla Snow, I’m sure they’d come here personally to collect her. Even if the Lannister’s discover that we found her first… they can’t hurt us. We didn’t house her here indefinitely, so they can’t accuse us taking sides in a potential Targaryen restoration.”

Thorne blinked while cautious murmurs circulated the room once more. It was an intriguing idea, no one could deny that. But still—

“The Martell’s would protect her! We need to send her head in a basket to the Lannister’s!”

“The Martell’s were loyal to House Targaryen! What happened to Elia Martell was horrible! They can finally get justice with that girl and her dragon! Yes, send her there!”

“No! Stannis is the rightful king! Kill the dragon and give her to him!”

“Sending her to the Martell’s is the _stupidest_ thing we could do! She’d be in greater danger there than with the Lannister’s!”

It was so quiet, one could hear a pin dropped. All eyes fell upon a young Dornish ranger standing in the back corner. He didn’t seem to care how everyone was staring at him as though he was mad. If anything, that encouraged him to continue.

“The Martell’s were humiliated when Rhaegar kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark,” he went on. “Princess Elia wasn’t enough for him. The Martell’s… they know what happened to Lyanna Stark herself was tragic, not to mention what the Mad King did to her father and brother when they pleaded for her safe return. But still… the North helped bring down the downfall of House Targaryen. How do you think the Martell’s will react to hearing a _Northern_ Targaryen bastard is alive? Can we guarantee they’ll welcome her with open arms?”

Silence. Dead silence. Not even Stannis’ party said anything. Looking at the situation like _that…_ it was hard to determine one way or another as to what would happen.

Sam fidgeted nervously, he too looking distinctly ruffled. “Then… Then maybe we should send her to Essos. Aside from Maester Aemon, Daenerys Targaryen is the last true-born Targaryen out there. I know she’s all the way across the Narrow Sea, but at least we’d know for sure that she’d be safe with her. And if the stories are true about the Dragon Queen having three dragons… she’d know more than any of us would about taking care of one.”

Janos Slynt shot up from his seat so fast, his chair toppled over. “Absolutely not!” he roared. “That beast out there is a monster, plain and simple! I don’t know what to think about the so-called Dragon Queen, but if the stories are true, we’d be giving that foreign whore another dragon! She’ll burn Westeros to the ground for sure if she gets her hands on that girl and her pet! We’re not letting that happen!”

People tittered amongst each other nervously at that image. Jon didn’t like Slynt, and after witnessing his pathetic cowardliness during the Battle at the Wall against Mance’s army, he held no respect for him whatsoever, but not even he could deny that was a real possibility. Maester Aemon always craved to hear whatever news he could about his distant niece’s exploits across the Narrow Sea, and would often have Sam read him whatever news any ravens brought about her. Sam sometimes relayed that information back to him every now and then. From what Jon had heard, Daenerys Stormborn had her heart in the right place with trying to end slavery in Slaver’s Bay, but she was too ruthless in her conquest. It was anyone’s guess what she’d do if she returned to Westeros.

Thorne sighed, letting his head hang for a few moments as he tried to get a grip on his frustration. “Are there any other suggestions? We need to come to some sort of decision about this.”

All was silent amongst the watchers on the Wall. Not even those in the Baratheon army had anything to add. It was off-putting, the silent realization that the only decision everyone could agree to was to simply disagree on what to do with Lyaella Snow. Thorne was especially annoyed.

“Now you’re all so quiet?! Come on, you lot! At least one of you must have enough brains to think up another possibility!”

“We’re all making suggestions on what to do with this young girl. Why are we discussing this at all at this time? There are far more important questions we should be wondering about.”

All eyes in the room slowly fell upon the old, white-haired maester of the Night’s Watch. Maester Aemon’s blind eyes stared out at no one in particular in the crowd, but he was smiling kindly, not the slightest bit concerned as to how everyone would react to what he had to say.

“This young girl… she was found North of the Wall, but apparently is not a Wildling. She was all alone aside from her dragon, her personal protector. But who is she, and where did she get a dragon egg? She is obviously of Targaryen descent, but she’s a Snow, one far too young to be an illegitimate child of Aerys or Rhaegar. She hasn’t said a word at all about who her parents are. The only family she’s mentioned is her twin brother and their oddly-named friend, Shadow. We know nothing else about her. We don’t know where this brother and friend of hers are, or where their family is. Nor do we know what led to her being out there beyond the Wall in the first place, let alone how she got beyond it, too.”

Jon was too far back to tell for certain, but he was pretty sure Thorne clenched his fist up even tighter. “I’m well aware of all that. But wondering about it is irrelevant if we can’t even get her to talk to us. If she’s not going to cooperate willingly, we need to figure out what we intend to do with her.”

Maester Aemon merely chuckled. “With respect, Ser Alliser, she’s never going to leave that room. At least, not while others are around,” he said airily. Thorne blinked, not that the former Targaryen prince saw. Still, he must’ve somehow sensed the lingering confusion in the air, and he went on. “It pains me that I cannot see at all what she or that beautiful dragon look like, but I knew right away upon meeting her that she was not raised as a Targaryen. She was in shock and quite scared, which was quite understandable. She’s probably still feeling that way now. She’s not going to leave my private solar unless she’s certain it’s safe to do so.”

“But she has a dragon!” someone in the crowd yelled. “We’re the ones in danger around her!”

“To us, yes. To her, that dragon is not a threat, and it’s likely she doesn’t view it as one towards others. Everyone else is the enemy she must be on guard around.”

Curious whispers broke out across the room. Jon didn’t know what to think. It was an interesting concept, that that girl was more afraid of everyone else than they were of her dragon. How on earth were they going to coax her out of her shell enough to talk to them if Maester Aemon was right about this?

Thorne appeared to have no comment for once and just hung his head, eyes shut and lips pressed together in a tight line. Queen Selyse, on the other hand, had plenty to say on the topic.

“I don’t care who this girl is or what led to her being here, nor do I care whether or not she considers the men of the Night’s Watch dangerous,” she declared. “My husband is the rightful king. She is merely a bastard and has no claim to the Iron Throne, so there’s no need to tread lightly on what to do with her. I want that child and that monster gone, or dead. As soon as possible!”

Davos’ lips parted a bit, but Stannis’ face tightened. “Selyse—”

Queen Selyse whipped around so fast, her dark brown hair slapped her in the face. “I stand firm on this, Stannis. For all we know, that girl is simply biding her time until everyone lowers her guard. She could order that beast to burn you alive to make things easier for that Dragon Queen across the sea! She could kill all your soldiers without blinking twice! Or Shireen!”

The stag king tensed. He turned away a bit, furrowing his brows as he considered his daughter.

“There is no need to fear that, my king,” Melisandre crooned. “Right after funeral the other day, I looked into the flames about the dragon child. I can assure you of is that Princess Shireen is in no danger around her. If anything, the Lord has already decided that this child will secure your victory when you march against the Bolton’s.”

Jon’s breath stilled. Whether or not Melisandre really could see the future in the flames because of the Lord of Light was debatable, but in the offhand chance she could… he wanted to know. Any guarantee that the family that betrayed and murdered Robb and took the North for themselves was a welcome one.

Sadly, the priestess didn’t get the chance to explain further, as Davos distinctly cleared his throat. “Your grace, I don’t know what to believe when it comes to visions in the flames, but I do agree with Lady Melisandre about that girl not wishing any harm on the princess. Remember how she was back in the forest? She didn’t hurt anyone with that dragon. Considering the circumstances, no one could blame her if she had, it would’ve been justifiable self-defense. She just… hid behind it, terrified. She probably wouldn’t have come here at all were it not for Lord Snow.”

Stannis considered this for a short time, but when he at last looked up, he didn’t focus on his advisers or his queen. He didn’t glance back to Thorne or even Maester Aemon had the High Table. He let his gaze travel slowly across the room, searching for someone in particular. Jon froze when his eyes fell upon him.

“You’re the one who convinced that girl to calm down, Lord Snow. You’re the one that brought her here. What do you think should be done about her?”

It was like someone had sucker punched him right in the gut. Jon’s mind was racing as everyone turned to look at him. Stannis was asking him? Why? It was only because he grew up with so many younger siblings that he knew how to approach and calm down Lyaella enough to agree to come back to the Night’s Watch with him. He had nothing to do with the girl since then aside from answering countless questions from his fellow brothers about how he found her. Why did his opinion matter?

Shoving his anxiety aside, he swallowed and got to his feet. “Well, your grace, I think the only way we’re going to get her to come out of there is if we first try asking her more about her brother. She… She was screaming for him and that friend she called Shadow out there in the woods. For all we know, they could be out there now. If we tell her we want to help her find them, but we need to know more about them, that might get her willing to come and talk, at least. We need to find out more about her family, anyway.”

There was a brief pause as everyone absorbed his suggestion, but then Maester Aemon chuckled lightly. “A fine idea. I’m inclined to agree, Lord Snow. If there is another Targaryen child somewhere out there, we must find out where they are, and also where both of them came from.”

Whether or not Thorne agreed with Maester Aemon or Jon didn’t matter since Stannis nodded once in agreement. “Very well. That seems to make the most sense, in any case, but I would like myself and my advisers to be present when you try speaking to her.”

“You do not make demands of us, your grace!” said Thorne. “We are not your soldiers, we’re the Night’s Watch! That girl is in the custody of the Night’s Watch, so we get the final say in what happens to her, not you!”

“I am not making demands. I am making a request. Considering I helped your men protect the Wall, this is a rather simple request in return and—”

Stannis’ words were cut off by the bellowing roar of the Targaryen child’s dragon.

And it was coming from directly outside.

* * *

It was a rare sight, Castle Black’s courtyard being completely empty. No one was training, no one was talking or walking around, no one milling about. With everyone in the Night’s Watch inside the Main Hall or otherwise currently keeping watch on top of the Wall, it was devoid of all life and the only sound to be heard was the whistling wind. Aside from that, there were only a few others currently residing in Castle Black that weren’t required to be in one of those two places at this time, and one of them in particular had been waiting for an opportunity like this for several days now. She wasn’t about to waste it.

The doorknob to Maester Aemon’s private solar slowly turned, and after a momentary pause, it swung open slightly. The little girl cautiously stepped outside and looked around. Seeing no one out and about in the snowy courtyard, she opened the door wider and motioned her friend to follow. The dragon warbled as it stepped out beside her, nosing her silver hair affectionately with her snout. She laughed.

“Shh! Quiet, Sōnar!” Lyaella whispered, pressing a finger to her lips. “We don’t want everyone to come running out here looking for us, do we?”

Sōnar crooned softly, nudging her shoulder lightly in response. Lyaella smiled. Patting her snout again, she jerked her chin a bit in a motion to have Sōnar follow her, and then quietly tiptoed down the wooden walkway. She’d been stuck inside that small workroom for over five days. She had simply been far too scared of everything and everyone to leave the safety of the small solar, and then she realized just how _cold_ it was beyond the door. Freezing, actually. But still, she wasn’t going to say cooped up in there for even a moment longer than necessary now that the training yard was clear. She’d been waiting for the courtyard to be empty so she could finally look around in peace. She and Torrhen had never been to Castle Black back in their own timeline. Aside from being allowed to go out riding in the Wolfwood while still under the watchful eye of at least twenty of Queen Sansa’s most loyal bannermen every time, they had never left Winterfell, period. She wanted to explore her future father’s home-away-from-home here at the Wall more than anything… but just not while everyone else was staring at her. That was daunting.

And besides, she hadn’t had a thing to eat since yesterday’s midday meal. She was _starving._ There had to be a Great Hall of some sort around here somewhere.

She’d barely made it down the walkway steps when the wind kicked up a bit, sending a blast of stale, bitter air through the open courtyard. It whipped Lyaella right in the face, and a cough tore past her lips as she twisted her cloak a bit to bury her face into the white fur stitched around the collar. Sōnar stretched out a wing, allowing her to huddle up against the heat of her scaly hide. Lyaella sighed in content as she pressed up against her dragon sister.

“C-C-C-Cold…” she whimpered, teeth chattering lightly as she wind slowly petered off. “S-S-So cold…”

Part of Lyaella couldn’t help but feel somewhat annoyed with herself for shivering like this. She was a Northerner. She’d been raised in the freezing halls of Winterfell castle during the longest Winter in history of her timeline. She should be used to chilling temperatures… But then again, cold took on a whole new meaning here at Castle Black. Stepping away from the crackling warmth of the fireplace was enough to send a chill down her spine, and opening the door for even a _moment_ to bring in trays of food made her shiver all the way down to her bones. And the air here… it was so different then back at Winterfell, so frigid and dry. The first time she’d opened the door, the unexpected breath of icy air compared to the toasty warmth of the room was enough to send her into a coughing fit for several minutes. A really bad one, too. Luckily, her lungs didn’t give out on her and she was fine after a short time, but since then there was a lingering tickle in the back of her throat. An annoying dry cough was stuck in her chest, and despite how she’d done her best over the past few days to monitor her health, it refused to go away. There was nothing she could do about that, though. Not unless she told the adults here at the Night’s Watch so that blind maester could brew her that disgusting remedy Maester Marlon always forced her to drink. She wasn’t that bad off though, and even if she was, there was no way she would ever willingly ask for that potion. She would just have to learn to become accustomed to her weak lungs since Marlon wasn’t here to give her medicine.

A distinct rumbling in her stomach reminded Lyaella that she had to keep looking around, and once she was warm enough, she began thoroughly exploring the training yard. Not that there was all that much to see, though. Just numerous barrels and unlit torches scattered about, and even upon searching the barrels, there wasn’t anything remotely edible inside for her to munch on, let alone feed Sōnar with. Just tubs of smelly black goop that she didn’t dare touch. She wasn’t entirely certain, but she pretty sure that it was either tar or pitch. Either way, it was definitely not food. The only really interesting area to poke around in was where all the weaponry was stored. A half dozen training dummies were set up for people to practice their swordplay with, and stacked up in crates and barrels near a snowy forge were dozens upon dozens of swords and training armor. There was a small, rickety shed right on the other side of the forge, most likely containing other training gear and weapons, and even though there was a large, rusty padlock around the chain looped around the door handle, a key was hanging from a nail poking out from the shed wall, allowing easy access for anyone needing to go inside.

Lyaella ignored the shed though and instead wandered over to where all the weapons were stacked, intrigued. “Look at all this, Sōnar!” she exclaimed. “There’s more swords here than in all of Winterfell!”

Sōnar didn’t appear to care one way or another about all the swords. She was far more interested in sniffing the barrels themselves, even nudging a few of them with her snout before making a rather sad warble and investigating another container.

Her small mistress turned to her, puzzled by her behavior. “What is it, girl? What’s wrong?”

Sōnar made a small, sorrowful whine, one which Lyaella was certain she hadn’t ever made before. She had no time to dwell on it though, because the dragon suddenly flicked her long white tail. Lyaella stumbled forward a few steps from the gentle nudge, too confused to bat her tail away. Sōnar warbled miserably, closing the last bit of distance between them. Lyaella’s brows furrowed as she found herself being pointedly nestled up against her side.

“I… I don’t understand… Do you want a hug? I’m happy to give you one. But you only have to—”

A low, distinctive rumble reverberated from deep within her dragon sister, echoing out from her stomach. Sōnar moaned and gazed down at her with sad, heartbroken blue eyes.

“Oh,” she realized, stepping back. “You’re hungry, too.”

Sōnar half-heartedly nosed at her silver hair. Lyaella’s insides churned with pained guilt and regret. With a sheepish smile, she reached up and scratched the underside of Sōnar’s jaw. It was one of the few rare areas on Sōnar’s body that had considerably fewer scales, and thus was one of her favorite spots for soft pets and scratches. Sure enough, Sōnar brightened considerably, tilting her head closer with a happy trill.

Pressing her lips against the white and blue scales on Sōnar’s neck, Lyaella sighed. “I’m sorry, girl. I… I know you haven’t been eating well since we got here. I forgot that. You should’ve said something sooner.”

A soft croon escaped the dragon, and Lyaella giggled as Sōnar nuzzled her cheek. She hadn’t thought she’d been neglecting her dragon these past few days. Every meal that had been brought to her, she had only eaten half before offering the rest to Sōnar. Problem was, not every meal she’d received contained meat. As a dragon, Sōnar was a strict carnivore, so the few dishes of gruel and half-frozen vegetables were instances where the dragon was forced to otherwise skip a meal. Aside from the disgusting gruel which she too refused to touch, Lyaella would guiltily eat her meals entirely until a tray arrived with a helping of something meaty. Those she gave exclusively to Sōnar. Her dragon was thankful, but she wouldn’t touch those meals until Lyaella ate at least half of it first. Sōnar cared more about Lyaella’s well-being than her own. It made the little girl happy that her dragon loved her as much as she did, but it broke her heart too. Even if didn’t eat half of whatever meaty dish the Night’s Watch provided her with, it still wasn’t enough for her Sōnar. A single plate of roasted rabbit was barely more than a snack for a growing dragon, and having only half of that did little whatsoever. She needed _more_ to sustain herself.

Glancing back over at all the barrels scattered around, Lyaella pecked one last kiss against Sōnar’s hide before approaching the closest one. “Come on, there’s gotta be food barrels around here somewhere. Let’s keep looking.”

The first few barrels she checked had nothing but mounds of scrap metal piled up inside, for which she could only assume was for shoddy repair work on either the weaponry or armor for the men of the Watch, and the next ones she found had only more of that strange black goop she’d seen in other barrels scattered throughout the courtyard. Sōnar meanwhile had taken to nosing more of the barrels with swords sticking out, not realizing that it was pointless to bother searching those barrels.

Personally, Lyaella thought Sōnar’s misguided help was funny. “Don’t suppose you see one with a wolf head on the pommel in there, do you?” she asked, tugging off the lid of a new barrel and peering inside hopefully. “I’d love to see Longclaw.”

The dragon rumbled in response. Lyaella hadn’t been paying too much attention due to how she was still searching through her current barrel, but she snapped to attention when the sword barrel suddenly toppled over. Gasping in alarm, she sprang backwards to avoid getting cut as the blades scattered everywhere, and she coughed a few times from the abrupt intake of cold air.

“S-Sōnar!” she rasped. “That… That was v-very… very naughty of you! You know better than to make messes like that!”

Instead of looking properly chastised, Sōnar made a small whine and tilted her head a bit, seemingly confused. Glancing down at a lone blade, she nudged it closer to Lyaella so she could properly examine it.

It took all of Lyaella’s willpower not to laugh. “If y-you were trying to… to get me to look and see them m-myself, nudge _me_ next time,” she said, slowly regaining her breath. “Don’t knock over the whole barrel.”

Sōnar cooed in return. Covering her mouth with her hand, Lyaella pretended to cough a second time in order to hide the smile threatening to appear as she fought back giggles. Bending her head a bit to further conceal her amusement, she propped the barrel back up and worked on collecting the scattered swords. To her dismay, not one of them appeared to be her future-father’s fabled sword, and even worse, she could barely even lift any of them. Grabbing the pommel of one at random, she immediately groaned.

“Argh!”

Huffing and puffing loudly, it took everything Lyaella had to muster the strength to pick up the sword and drop it in the barrel. She tried doing the same with another, but she barely managed to lift it a few inches before her arms gave out and it slipped out from her fingers.

Shaking her head tiredly, Lyaella doubled over and panted heavily while clutching her knees. “H-Heavy… Too heavy…” she wheezed. “Heavier than the practice swords Tory trains me w-with… What’s with the Night’s Watch? Not everyone can… can use blades that heavy…”

“I can ask my father if anyone in his army has a lighter one, if you want.”

Lyaella squeaked and spun around, her heart pounding in her chest. She half-expected to see another scary Stormlands soldier or gruff-looking man of the Night’s Watch looming over her, but upon seeing who it was, she blinked, surprised.

Shireen Baratheon stood behind her. Dressed warmly in a rather pretty pink wool dress with a winter cloak thrown over her shoulders and brown leather boots, the little doe of House Baratheon was the perfect epitome of what a princess should be. It didn’t matter that the left half of her face was permanently marred with faded greyscale scars. Her glowing smile coupled with her straight brown hair with a few stylistic braids framing her face and dark eyes made her look incredibly sweet and kind. If she only had a crown on her head, she really would look a princess.

A few moments passed, but Lyaella was too stunned to speak. She’d been in such a state of shock upon arriving at Castle Black, she had completely missed quite a few things during her arrival, one of them being taking note of Stannis Baratheon’s daughter back in the crowd. She didn’t know what Shireen thought about her, but given that she was the princess of the Baratheon king claimant for the Iron Throne while she was only the Snow daughter of House Targaryen, she didn’t dare drop her guard. Past experiences of her and Torrhen trying desperately to make friends with other children their age back in their timeline had taught her that children could be a thousand times crueler than adults. She couldn’t count the number of times Torrhen had gotten into trouble for getting into fist fights and she had hidden away in the crypts to cry after the other children in Winterfell and Wintertown called them cruel names. Snowwyrms, scaly runts, the Dragon’s Dung… The list went on and on. And those were only the cruel Targaryen nicknames for being the children of the Mad Queen. The nicknames for being the children of the foolish Queenslayer and friend of Wildlings? Those were twice as nasty. Rabid mutts, Tory Thenn, Wildling Warg due to Torrhen’s fire flickered out in front of the bullies once, and Frost Fangs for both her own silver hair and how the other kids learned that Maester Marlon’s remedies for her involved drinking owl’s blood.

Swallowing thickly, she gathered up the skirts of her dress and made a polite curtsy. “H-Hello…”

Lyaella expected to see a partial sneer on Shireen’s face or a cold glare at the very least, but the Baratheon princess did neither. Instead, to Lyaella’s bafflement, she too gathered up the skirts of her own dress and curtsied back, smiling the whole time.

“Hello to you, too. I am Princess Shireen of House Baratheon. I apologize if I startled you just now. I thought you heard me approach,” she said sweetly. “Forgive me, but I don’t quite remember what you said your name was when you first arrived here at Castle Black.”

Lyaella stared, expression entirely blank. “I… I’m Lyaella,” she whispered, her hand shaking a bit as she fingered the edges of her silver dragon necklace. “L-Lyaella Snow…”

Shireen beamed. “Your name is so pretty. Targaryen’s always had such beautiful names. And so did their dragons.” Her gaze shifted to Sōnar, excitement shining in her eyes. “Is yours a boy or a girl?”

“G-Girl…”

“She’s gorgeous! Her white scales are just as white as snow… And those blue scales mixed in and on her wings is such a pretty shade. It… It’s almost as blue as ice! She’s amazing!”

Despite Lyaella’s guarded puzzlement, Sōnar had no such misgivings. Shireen’s heartfelt compliments had successfully warmed the dragon up to her. Warbling in delight, Sōnar crept closer to Shireen so she could see her better.

Shireen gasped, wonder-struck. “A dragon. A real dragon,” she whispered, eyes sparkling. “I’ve… I’ve read all about House Targaryen’s dragons… I’ve always wanted to see one… I can’t believe she’s really here in front of me! You’re so lucky to have her, Princess Lyaella!”

Lyaella tensed, squeezing her pendant tightly. “I… I’m g-glad you like Sōnar, but please… please d-don’t call me that.”

Shireen had already been reaching up to stroke Sōnar’s snout, but upon hearing that last little tidbit, she turned to Lyaella, confused. “Hmm? Call you what, Princess Lyaella?”

She grimaced further, and a slight cough escaped Lyaella’s lips before she could stop herself. She tried to force a smile when it was over, but it was impossible for the silver-haired girl to hide the sadness in her eyes. _“That._ I’m not a… a p-princess, so please don’t call m-me one.”

Curtsying once more, Lyaella smiled sadly as she turned away from Shireen, moving to collect one of the scattered swords that had landed near the locked shed. Not willing to kill herself by trying to walk back to the barrel while carrying it, she instead lugged it slowly behind her through the snow. She didn’t dare lock eyes with the Baratheon princess as she struggled to get it back inside. She couldn’t, not unless she wanted the other girl to see her hurt expression. The sad truth about her and Torrhen’s identities still bothered Lyaella, and even though she and Torrhen hadn’t talked about it out loud recently, she knew it bothered him, too. But the circumstances regarding them weren’t Shireen’s fault. If she remembered her history lessons correctly, Shireen Baratheon was fated to die before the end of this year due to some event involved with Stannis Baratheon’s Red Priestess, and that made her a rare person who was completely blameless of the terrible events happening now in the past, or in the future of Lyaella’s own timeline. Even if they were, none of those events had happened yet or would be happening anytime soon. She had to bury her feelings deep down inside and forget about them for now. When the time came to save her parents from the plotting Stark’s, she could think about her feelings then. Until then, she couldn’t let herself dwell on them.

Shireen still didn’t say anything even after she finally managed to get the heavy sword back in the barrel, so Lyaella took that as her cue to go ahead and fetch the final fallen sword near the shed. But then Shireen quietly stepped up beside her and carefully wrapped the hem of her cloak around the sharp blade.

Lyaella was taken aback. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you,” she replied, now safely picking up the blade with the protective covering. Initially cheerful, she gasped in surprise and quickly brought her second hand down to help herself lift it. “Goodness! This is heavy! You’re very strong if you managed to move these swords all on your own!”

She was too confused to fully understand Shireen’s words. Forcing a stiff nod, Lyaella jerked her head in the direction of the barrel to direct Shireen before slowly carrying the sword that way with her help. Moving it was so much easier with an extra set of hands, and aside from how they both struggled to safely lift the sword high enough to get it into the barrel with accidentally cutting themselves, it took no time at all.

“T-Thank you,” she said finally, self-consciously tucking a loose strand of silver hair behind her ear. “I… I’m sure it would’ve t-taken me forever to get it in there o-otherwise…”

Shireen beamed. “It was no trouble. I was happy to help.”

Lyaella still didn’t know how to react. She truly wasn’t used to being near any children her age aside from her brother or the bullies from her timeline. All the stories she’d heard about her from Ser Davos regarding his past as the former hand to the deceased Baratheon king were proven about her being genuinely kind and polite… but that had been Ser Davos’ experience with her. What if Shireen wasn’t all too nice with people aside from him? The best thing to do was extract herself from this situation.

“I… I apologize if m-me or Sōnar disturbed you. D-Don’t mind us, we’ll stay out of your way.”

Shireen giggled. “Don’t worry about that, Lyaella. It was my pleasure to help. But anyway, you didn’t answer me before. Would you like me to ask my father if anyone in his army has a lightweight sword? I wouldn’t mind.”

Lyaella’s eyes bulged. She frantically shook her head. “N-No, no! Please, don’t!” she begged. “I… I don’t want to get your father mad at me.”

“Mad at you?” she blinked. “Why would my father get mad at you for that?”

“W-Well… Well, he—”

A sudden, unexpected whine interrupted them, followed by loud panting. The girls spun around, as did the dragon. But oddly enough, there was nothing and no one there behind them. Just the rickety out shed.

“Hello?” said Shireen curiously. “Is anyone else out here?”

All was silent aside from the whispering wind. Exchanging puzzling glances at one another, Shireen and Lyaella initially started to turn back around, but then more panting started up along with the sound of snow shifting around. Shireen still appeared rather confused, but Lyaella felt her chest tighten a bit as she gazed around fearfully. She was incredibly lucky to have Sōnar with her right now. Without Torrhen here to be brave for them both, her dragon sister was her only protector.

“W-Who’s there?” she stuttered. “We… We can hear you. What d-do you want with us?”

There was a brief pause, but then, without warning, the locked shed door jostled as something large and heavy banged into it from the inside. Shireen gasped and stepped back several paces, but Lyaella whimpered and scooted a bit behind Sōnar to hide, motioning the other girl to do the same. She was more than happy to oblige.

“What… What’s in there?” Shireen whispered, shoulders quivering.

Lyaella shook her head, eyes bulging. “I… I don’t know…” she said. With a thick gulp, she hesitantly peeked around Sōnar back to the shed. The door was still jostling a bit, but it sounded like something was repeatedly shifting its weight on it, as though trying to force it open despite the thick padlock. Whatever it was, it sounded like some kind of animal judging by it was whining again, and from in between the gaps in the wood paneling due to its poor craftsmanship, it looked large. Large and furry. Her breathing picked up again as her terror rose. “Y-You don’t think the Night’s Watch keeps d-dangerous animals here, do you?”

“Not that I know of, but… but I could be wrong…”

“S-Sōnar? What do y-you think?” Lyaella whimpered, pressing up against her white and blue scales. “Is… Is there a m-monster in there?”

Sōnar had a distinctive growl emanating from the back of her throat. She took a few hesitant steps forward, staying low to the ground the entire time so as to strike at a moments notice. As she approached the shed, she took a single delicate sniff at the entire structure. Before she could make any further judgment, the creature inside made an expected yip sound. The girls shrieked as Sōnar roared back.

“S-Sōnar!”

“Don’t let her burn down the shed!”

“S-Sōnar! Sōnar, come on! Let’s go!”

Had it not been for how Lyaella dashed in front of the dragon and began forcefully pushing it away from the shed, Sōnar wouldn’t have listened. The few embers that had been igniting in the back of her throat died away as she allowed her small mistress to direct her away from the shed, but she still kept one narrowed blue eye focused on it when the door began jiggling again. Lyaella glanced back at the shed nervously, but she didn’t dare to investigate it herself. She kept one arm looped around Sōnar’s neck at all times until they were safely next to Shireen by the forge.

She didn’t even look at the small doe when they approached her. She just turned to her dragon and tried patting her neck reassuringly despite how hard her hands were trembling. “That was s-scary…” she murmured, speaking more to herself rather than the other girl or her dragon. “Very scary…”

Shireen stiffly nodded, her face much paler now whereas how it had been when she first introduced herself to Lyaella. Her eyes remained fixated on the shed, not daring to look away for even a second. “They… They must have something locked up in there. Some weird creature…”

“A monster,” Lyaella agreed. Her body wanted to expel another cough, but she fought the urge and willed herself to stay quiet. Should either of them get too loud, whatever was in there might hear them and try busting out again. “A terrible, horrible monster…”

A door suddenly slammed open behind them, and the girls whipped around. The entirety of the Night’s Watch and the leaders of the Stormlands army were flooding out of the Main Hall, all of them wearing matching expressions of alarm and fear as they kept their eyes fixed solely on the snowy white dragon.

“Shireen!” called out Stannis, shoving his way to the front of the crowd to reach his daughter, his wife and two advisers right on his heels.

“Father!” said the princess, her fear vanishing entirely upon seeing him. She hurried up to him with a bright smile. “Father, I’d like you to meet—”

“What were you doing?!” Selyse interrupted, pushing herself in front of her husband and bending down a bit to firmly shake Shireen’s shoulders. “What were you thinking, going near that dragon?!”

Shireen stiffened, her happiness instantly wiped away. “Mother, I—”

“Are you hurt at all?” Stannis cut in, eyes flicking pointedly to his wife before returning to his daughter. “We heard it roar.”

She shook her head. “No, Father. Sōnar wasn’t roaring at me. She was roaring at—”

“Sōnar, c-come on! Back upstairs!”

Lyaella didn’t care if her terrified order technically interrupted the quick conversation between the Baratheon royal family. She was too busy trying to hurriedly usher her dragon towards the wooden walkways. Her thoughts were a scattered mess as she half-pushed, half-ran with Sōnar away from the crowd, but one thing she did know was that she had to get away from here now. That little room she’d been living in was her only safe place from the Baratheon king claimant and anyone else who might wish to harm her or Sōnar. If they both didn’t get back in there now, they’d be dead within a matter of minutes.

They’d nearly reached the walkways, but a big older man wearing a thick black cloak and equally black-dyed armor quickly cut her off, as did several other Night’s Watch officers.

“Woah, there! Take it easy, girl!” said the ringleader. “Don’t be—”

Too late. The moment her path got cut off, Lyaella screamed, reached down into a patch of snow by her feet for a snow clump, and chucked it right at his head before spinning around and leading Sōnar in the opposite direction. She couldn’t get back up to that little room. No big deal. The main gate leading out of Castle Black to the rest of Westeros was only ten or so yards away. If they could get to it, she’d have Sōnar blast it open and then they’d run. It didn’t matter that doing so would take her far away from her future father. Better to run now and wait to get to know Jon Snow at a later date then stay and be executed before ever having a proper conversation with him.

Sadly, the other adults seemed to catch on to her train of thought, because dozens of Stormlands soldiers and members of the Night’s Watch hurried to gather in front of the gate and bar her path. She froze mid-step. One of the Stormlands soldiers tried saying something to calm her, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying over the sound of her heartbeat drumming through her head. She ignored him and looked around frantically. All other entryways into the various rooms and sheds all around the courtyard were quickly being blocked off. No one was going to let her escape this time. This was really, really bad! What were she and Sōnar going to do?

But then, she saw her saving grace. The one entrance that no one was guarding.

“Child, calm down,” said the big older man that tried talking to her before. Wiping clumps of snow out of his eyes, he and his entourage were attempting to approach her again, his strides purposeful and not at all cautious. “We only want to—”

Sōnar lunged forward, snarling wildly and snapping her jaws in warning. A portly bald man standing beside the apparent leader cried out in alarm and fell over while the others accompanying him nervously backed away. The one in charge though only flinched, face draining of color as he stared up at the protective dragon.

“S-Stay away from me!” Lyaella cried, her breath slightly rasped. Before he or anyone else could say otherwise, she sprinted towards the tunnel as fast as she could despite her weak lungs, Sōnar right on her heels. That tunnel was the only other exit out of Castle Black. It led out to the wrong side of the Wall, but it was still an escape route. It was her best chance right now at immediate survival. And besides, Torrhen and Shadow might be out there somewhere. She’d landed in the past beyond the Wall. Who could say they hadn’t either?

It didn’t seem like any big groups would be able to cut them off in time to stop them. Lyaella was relieved. She wasn’t sure just how longer she could keep running like this. Her words were getting a bit raspy and she was already feeling the slightest bit tight chested, not to mention she’d been coughing earlier. After this last sprint, she needed to take it easy for awhile. Nothing was out there, beyond the Wall. She’d be safe once she and Sōnar made it to that little forest they’d been in when they landed in the past. Until then, she couldn’t afford to overexert herself.

She was less than ten feet away from the tunnel entrance. She was almost there! A few more steps and she’d be—

A lone man of the Watch stepped in front of the passageway, his arms raised a bit as though trying to calm down a frightened animal. Had it been anyone else in the Night’s Watch, Lyaella would have just stood aside and let Sōnar roar as loud as she could to scare him off. But not with him. No, the moment she locked eyes with him, she automatically skidded to a halt.

Because it was Jon Snow who was barring her escape route.

“Hey, hey now, it’s all right,” he said, taking only a single, slow step forward so as not to frighten her or her dragon. “I swear to you, it’s all right…”

Lyaella didn’t answer him, nor did she move. There was so much she wanted to say and do upon being face-to-face with him again. Especially now that she knew full well who he was as opposed to their first meeting. She’d been wishing her whole life for the chance to know her parents. To see them, speak to them, but… she couldn’t think of a single thing to say or now right now. Lady Kinvara had warned her and Torrhen not to tell their future parents who they really were, after all. So what did one say to their future father who they always wanted to meet when they were forbidden from revealing too much information?

A sudden gust of wind swirled behind her as Sōnar leapt into the air. Landing firmly on the ground in front of Lyaella, her sharp talons and white-blue wings kicked up puffs of snow. She crouched down low, her tail wrapping itself protectively around her little mistress while baring her teeth at Jon in a menacing snarl. Embers erupted from the corners of her jaws, melting away small patches of snow as they floated to the ground.

Steel whistled through the air as men of the watch and Baratheon soldiers hurried to draw their blades. Should the dragon try spitting fire on Jon, they’d all be ready to attack… but the brother of the Night’s Watch made no attempt to stand down, nor did he unsheathe his own sword. Lyaella could see that he was trembling a bit, but her father never wavered. He bravely stood his ground as he stared the hissing dragon right in the eye.

“Easy… Easy there…” Still trembling, her father slowly reached out to Sōnar, as if willing the dragon to calm down. Then his gaze slowly shifted to her. A shudder ran through Lyaella’s body. “It’s okay…”

Lyaella kept her gaze locked solely on him as she ever-so subtly grazed Sōnar’s scales with the back of her hand. _“Stop,”_ she breathed, only loud enough for her dragon to hear her. _“Father.”_

Sōnar jerked her head at Lyaella, blue eyes blinking repeatedly, then snapped back to Jon, studying him intensely. Jon jumped a bit at the unexpected reaction, but she only squawked at him before slowly standing down. Lyaella wanted nothing more than to ignore Lady Kinvara’s warnings and run into his arms, to hug him as she always dreamed she could hug his real self as opposed to the statue in the crypts. But she didn’t. She just stood there, silent and unmoving as she gazed up at him. Even when Sōnar nuzzled her cheek and hooted before flying up in the sky, staying close in case she needed her. Even when Jon finally found the strength to close the distance between them and clasped a hand on her shoulder in a half embrace. Warmth flowed through her, making her feel truly safe for the first time in her life…

“Where are you running off to, little one?”

She choked on her own voice. “I—”

“That’s enough, Lord Snow!” a gruff voice cut in. “We’ve all got things to ask this girl!”

Lyaella whipped around, her eyes frantic. That big older man in the black armor was marching toward them, as was the stoic-faced Stannis Baratheon. His wife was dragging Shireen out of the courtyard and into the closest room available as several guards followed, but Ser Davos and Lady Melisandre were right behind their king, the former smuggler looking rather pensive while the priestess smiled mysteriously. Whimpering fearfully, Lyaella darted behind her father to hide. Jon jolted as she ran behind him, clearly startled, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. He was the only one she could dare to hope would keep her safe right now.

Ser Davos had always been kind to her and Torrhen and she was happy to see him. He was one person they fully trusted with their secrets and innermost feelings regarding their Stark relatives after Queen Yara had been disrespected by the wolves after that terrible incident when they were five… But that Davos she’d known was the one who had already known and been loyal to her father. Right now, he was loyal to Stannis Baratheon, the wrong king.

She recognized the future Grand Maester Sam when he and the old maester at Castle Black tended to her when she arrived and she knew he’d been good friends with her father prior to his death. Aside from how he didn’t understand how to say her name properly, he had been nice enough… but she and Torrhen had only ever met him once in their timeline. Quite frankly, his behavior towards them still puzzled her to this day. It was enough to make her know that he wouldn’t risk his neck trying to defend her if someone wanted to kill her.

Everyone else right now were wild cards as far as she was concerned. Jon Snow was the only one she could depend on to protect her right now. Even if he didn’t know her yet and she didn’t know him, she could trust him. He was her father.

Although Lyaella didn’t peek out from behind Jon to look at the approaching adults, she heard them all come to a stop a few feet away. She bit her lip, refusing to direct her eyes away from their fixed spot of Jon’s black cloak.

“It’s all right,” said the gruff voice again. “Come out from there.”

Lyaella didn’t move. She didn’t believe that for a second.

“No one’s gonna hurt you, kid. I promise.”

She still didn’t budge.

There was a heavy sigh. “Listen, girl—”

“If it’s me you’re concerned about, then I swear I don’t intend any ill will towards you or your dragon,” Stannis Baratheon cut in. “Not at this moment, anyway.”

She shifted a bit, still rather uncertain. It was so easy for people to lie. Her aunts and uncle lied all the time, after all. She didn’t move out fully from behind her father, but she did poke her head out slightly to glance out at everyone. Her cheeks burned when she saw how everyone out there was staring at her, and she squeaked before burying her face back into his cloak to hide. She felt him tense up, but that only made her cling to him even more. Don’t let him push her away. Let her stay hidden behind him forever.

There was a slight crunch of snow, and then a new voice cut in. A very familiar voice. “Hey, now. It’s okay. I’m sure things might seem rather scary right now, but I swear no one’s going to do anything to hurt you or — or your _friend.”_

Her heart leapt in her chest. She knew who was speaking now, and she couldn’t help but glance out again a second time. Ser Davos was kneeling on the ground at her level, his face warm with a caring smile. She nearly smiled herself at the sight of him, but then Lady Melisandre strode forward and she automatically hid again.

“It’s been several days since the Lord guided you to his chosen champion. Don’t you think now is the time to tell the rightful king how you came to be here? He is most curious about you, child.”

She clutched the black fabric even tighter in her fists, refusing to respond. Stannis Baratheon was not the Prince that was Promised, let alone the rightful king. The rightful king was none other than her father, not that she could explain that or explain how she knew it. And according to Lady Kinvara, the Lord of Light had two chosen champions to bring the true Dawn of Peace for the world. Jon was the first, and the other was the mother she still had yet to meet, Daenerys Targaryen. Lady Melisandre was just one of many priestesses out there who had misinterpreted that old prophecy. Her words meant nothing.

Her father shifted his weight a bit. “Listen, kid…? Lyaella, right—?”

“Not a word outta you, Lord Snow,” the gruff voice bitterly spat. “You’re not a leader here.”

There was a brief pause, and then Jon stiffly sighed. “Aye, Ser Alliser.”

“Good. Now child, you need to know that although Lord Stan— or rather, King Stannis,” he corrected himself, irritation dripping from his tone, “is here with his army right now, he and his soldiers are here as guests of the Night’s Watch. Moreover, you are also considered a fellow guest here at Castle Black. You have my word as the acting-Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch that I, Ser Alliser Thorne, will not permit anyone to hurt you so long as you come out from there and answer a few questions we wish to ask.”

Lyaella’s jaw clenched. Whoever this apparent knight was before he joined the Night’s Watch, he was certainly not a decent one. After all, he was showing her manners, but he wasn’t extending them towards Jon or even Stannis Baratheon.

“G-Go away,” she murmured, burying her face in the cloak folds. She had to. It was the only way she could muffle the choked sobs and coughs that were threatening to overtake her. “Please… Leave m-me and Sōnar alone…”

Ser Alliser heavily sighed. “Kid—”

Whimpers escaped her throat, and seconds later a heavy cough escaped her chest as she burst into tears. She couldn’t stop them from springing forth, and she clung desperately onto Jon’s cloak as she cried into the fabric. She wanted more than anything to hug him right now and be comforted back. Even a pat on the back or ruffle of her hair would be enough to cheer her up so long as her father did it.

But she didn’t dare. She could sense he was rather rigid and stiff with surprise from her clinging onto him and crying. Should she try seriously hugging him right now, he might shake her off. She was just a stranger in his eyes, after all. To be rejected like that would break her heart.

For a little while, no one said anything, nor did anyone attempt to yank her away from Jon. Lyaella kept crying into his cloak the whole time, not wanting to ever let go. The moment she did, either this Ser Alliser fellow or Stannis Baratheon would drag her kicking and screaming to either the executioners block or the gallows, whichever was available here at Castle Black. Sōnar would put up a fight for her, no doubt at all about that, but she wouldn’t win. She was only a horse-sized dragon against thousands upon thousands of men in the Night’s Watch and the Stormlands army combined. She didn’t want Sōnar to die trying to protect her, and she wasn’t ready to die either…

“It appears we have all forgotten what it was like, being a child. I am sure I speak for everyone here when I say it was not our intention to frighten you.”

Lyaella sniffled. This was a new voice, and it sounded like someone rather old. With great reluctance, she pulled away from Jon and peered around him. The old blind maester who had tended to her when she arrived was slowly making his way across the courtyard, smiling warmly the whole time. Lyaella swallowed. She had nothing against the old man. If anything, he had been nothing but kind to her as he treated her scratches, which was a vast improvement from how Maester Marlon always acted towards her and Torrhen, but she didn’t trust anyone right now aside from Jon. What else did she have to do to make these adults understand that she didn’t want to cause any trouble, but just wanted to stick close to her future father? She buried her face away again. Perhaps if she stayed quiet and didn’t say anything, they would finally leave her be.

She heard him stop a few feet away. “I never thought dragons would exist again. I’ve been on this earth for over a century now, and I’ve seen and experienced many things… but the rebirth of dragons? I feared my time would be up before such a miracle happened. To be near such a magnificent creature brings me such joy… and then I learned a young girl was bonded to one and they were residing here at Castle Black. I thought for sure I was dreaming. ‘She must be a strong, special little girl, like Queen Rhaenys or Visenya Targaryen.’ That’s what I thought.”

She said nothing, but she was secretly glad no one could could see her properly right then. Had she been in plain sight, everyone would see how her shoulders quaked as she ignored the urge to giggle.

“I cannot imagine what it must be like for you, right now,” he mused. “In a strange place, surrounded by strange people. Completely alone… and a Targaryen alone in the world, is a terrible thing.”

“I-I’m not alone,” Lyaella whispered, her fingers trembling from how hard she was clutching Jon’s cloak. “I… I’ve got Sōnar with me… and T-Tory and Shadow are out there somewhere. I just n-need to… to find them.” A half-truth. The only half-truth she could even say. She had her dragon with her, so she wasn’t actually alone, and even though she may not be with her brother and their direwolf right now, she could feel that they were out there somewhere in this timeline. So long as she didn’t give up hope on finding them, they weren’t gone. Not really.

The old maester chuckled. “I suppose you’re right there, my dear. Your dragon must be a wonderful companion, and bonds between siblings are exceptionally strong. It’s a shame that your brother and friend aren’t here too, but in the meantime, there’s someone else here at Castle Black to keep you company. I may not know how yet, but they share blood with you.”

Her stomach dropped. Did this maester somehow know that Jon was really a true-born Targaryen prince? That… That was impossible. The late Eddard Stark took the secret with him to the grave. Had it not been for King Bran the Broken’s strange greensight powers and then Samwell Tarly’s research back when he was studying at the Citadel, no one would’ve ever figured it out. What exactly was he saying?

She peeked out a bit at him. “I… I d-don’t understand…”

His sightless white eyes weren’t focused on her, but he still smiled. “I never properly introduced myself, did I? I am Aemon, the maester here at Castle Black. Though a lifetime ago, I am sure you knew me by another name. Crown Prince Aemon Targaryen.”

The cloak slipped out from between her fingers. She stared at him with wide eyes, blinking repeatedly. Did she hear that right? Did he really say what she thought he did? No… No, this was obviously not real. She misheard him. Or she was dreaming this. She fainted after freaking out when everyone rushed outside and she was now having a very vivid dream. Yes, that’s what was happening. It was the only logical explanation for—

He suddenly laughed. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

Her mouth felt dry as she stepped around Jon to see him better. “I… W-Well, I… I don’t know…”

He chuckled again. “I suppose it does seem hard to believe, but I assure you, child, it’s the truth. Time has driven almost all memory of me from those in the realm, so much so that not even those who share the blood of Old Valyria knows of my existence.”

Lyaella cautiously stepped closer, her whole body trembling. Could what he said be true? Was he really a long-forgotten Targaryen? A former heir to the Iron Throne?

“It’s… It’s n-nice to meet you,” she whispered, face blank with shock as she dipped down in a shaky curtsy. It was only after she did so that she realized he couldn’t even see it. “I just c-curtsied, your grace — Prince Aemon — n-no, Maester Aemon! Or is it ‘p-prince—?”

“No need to fret over that. Maester Aemon is fine. I haven’t gone by any royal titles since before I came to the Wall,” he assured her. “Please, little one, would you allow me to see you?”

“S-See you…? I mean no… no d-disrespect, your g— I-I-I mean, maester, but… I don’t—”

“Age may have taken away my sight, but I still have my sense of touch. Let me feel your face, visualize what you look like.”

Why Lyaella felt so nervous, she didn’t understand, but she did as he asked. Her fingers trembled as she gently took his old, wrinkled hands with her own and slowly brought them up to her teary cheeks.

It was so quiet in the courtyard, one could hear a pin drop. No one dared to interrupt the exchange, not even Ser Alliser or Stannis Baratheon. Lyaella was equally silent, still too dumbfounded to say or do anything. She wasn’t sure what to think, let alone what to feel. Why had no one ever told her and Torrhen that there was a long forgotten Targaryen at the Wall while their father served in the Night’s Watch? Sure, Maester Aemon was old and blind, but he was still technically family. How exactly were they even related anyway? Figuring out how to categorize their relations to their Targaryen ancestors had always been rather complicated for her and her brother. After all, their parents were secretly nephew and aunt. To her and Torrhen, Jon Snow was both their father and their great-nephew, and Daenerys Targaryen was their mother and their great-aunt. How many times over was Maester Aemon her uncle on both her mother’s side and her father’s side?

An eternity seemed to pass before the milky orbs grew moist. “You remind me so much of the Targaryen women who came before you, young one. Tell me, do you have the same silver hair and violet eyes as those in the rest of our House?”

“I… I’m not a real Targaryen. I’m a S-Snow. And my hair is s-silvery, but my eyes… m-my eyes are gray. Torrhen’s the one with v-violet eyes.”

“Ah, that’s right. Lord Snow said you mentioned having a twin brother.”

“T-Tory…” Her vision blurred again, and she abruptly stepped out of reach so he wouldn’t notice. She stared at the snowy ground, trying so hard not to cry. She wished Torrhen was here right now. Him and Shadow. He would be overjoyed to discover they had a long forgotten family member here at the Wall.

“I was hoping you and I could get to know each other better. I wish to know all about you and your brother,” he told her kindly. “And your dragon. It’d be a shame if you were to deny an old, blind man the chance to meet such an amazing creature.”

“O-Okay…”

“Of course, you can imagine I’m not the only one here who has questions. You wouldn’t mind if we talked in the Main Hall, would you? Everyone can be present, then.”

Lyaella stiffened. “I… I don’t… Well, I…” she murmured, unconsciously moving closer to Jon again. He tensed up again, but thankfully he didn’t try to step away or interrupt. “I… I d-don’t know…”

“Won’t you, please? No one will hurt you or your dragon, I promise. We only wish to talk.”

Lyaella was still unsure. She was silent for several moments as she considered, but her thoughts flew out of her head as her stomach rumbled. Loudly.

Her cheeks caught fire as she squeaked, embarrassed. She buried her face in her hands to avoid looking at anyone directly.

Maester Aemon laughed. “Ah, now I understand why you finally left my private solar. You were looking for the Main Hall on your own, weren’t you?”

“I-I’m fine, but Sōnar’s starving. She… She’s not getting enough f-from what’s been left on the trays. And even t-then… she’ll only eat m-meat…”

“Oh, dear. I daresay none of us thought about that. You have our apologies.”

“Perhaps, Maester Aemon, we could find something for both of them? In the Main Hall?”

“An excellent idea, Lord Snow. Come along, little one. Let’s find you and your dragon something to eat.”

Despite her reservations, Lyaella nodded. “O-Okay.”

She allows Maester Aemon to lead the way, but she didn’t start following until Stannis and the other adults started moving too. Even so, her steps were all carefully measured, small and stiffly made. She was still too on edge to walk normally. She would have been left behind by accident were it not for Jon gently touching her shoulder to make her look up.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “Maester Aemon’s a good man, I swear. Nothing bad is gonna happen.”

Tension she hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying in her shoulders eased up exponentially. If her father said things were going to be okay, then they would be.

She shyly smiled. “All right, I… I t-trust you.”

Before he could say anything or question her, Lyaella grabbed his hand and clung to him as she tried to walk a bit faster. She was not going to let Jon leave her alone and watch from the sidelines as she was forced to play Truth or Half-Truth to skirt around all the questions everyone was surely going to ask. He could stand next to her, or he could sit, but he was going to stay close. She couldn’t handle this unless he was there, too.

Well, him and Sōnar, that is. Speaking of which…

“S-Sōnar! We’re going in!”

* * *

He was an idiot. He was the world’s biggest, stupidest idiot.

He shouldn’t have gotten involved when Lyaella tried to leave Castle Black in her state of panic. Had he been smart and just watched on the sidelines like the rest of the Watch, he wouldn’t be in his current predicament:

Sitting rigidly beside her at one of the many long tables in the Main Hall while her dragon sat on the floor directly behind them, alert and ready to defend its little mistress at a moments notice.

It had already been jam packed in the lodge before the dragon entered, but when the beast swooped down from the sky after Lyaella called for it, it had dutifully followed her into the mess hall with him. Quite a few brothers initially protested, but Lyaella refused to enter without the dragon — they went in together, or they wouldn’t go in at all. To make room for the large occupant, people were now pressed up against each other by the walls or sitting on the tabletops, staring at it in open shock and apprehension. No one dared to be the first to break the tense silence while they all waited for Gilly to bring out a plate for the little girl while Sam brought out… whatever they could for the dragon. It was so quiet, every little sound seemed amplified in the small space.

Lyaella was clearly aware of their stares judging by how stiffly she was sitting, but she refused to acknowledge anyone. She sat turned away from the table surface so she could stare solely at the dragon, her face obviously forced in a fixed neutral expression. Her whole arm trembled as she stroked its snout and neck.

Maester Aemon sat on her opposite side, not the slightest bit uncomfortable by the presence of the giant beast in the confined space. Like Lyaella, he too was petting the dragon, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“Beautiful. Simply beautiful,” he said, running his fingers over the scaly pelt. “A beautiful creature, and kind, too. What color is it?”

“W-White… Sōnar’s snowy white, with bits of winter rose b-blue mixed in…” she whispered. “And you’re… you’re right. She’s very pretty.”

“I’m curious, why do you refer to your dragon as a ‘she?’”

“She’s beautiful. And she acts like… like a g-girl.”

He chuckled. “Dragons have no gender. Their behavior is based around their own personality as well as their rider.”

“Oh.”

Despite Maester Aemon’s attempts to engage her conversation, she still wasn’t dropping her guard. Jon couldn’t wrap his head around that. It was okay for her to relax. Even if someone had been planning to do something to her, they wouldn’t do it now. Not when that dragon was here with her. They really needed to get her calm down. The sooner she relaxed, the sooner he could carefully slip off to the side without her noticing. She nearly cried when he initially didn’t sit down next to her, and during the two attempts he’d made so far to discretely get up, she would immediately pick up on it and start getting sad. Let the rest of the Watch call him whatever they want, he couldn’t just ignore that. He was stuck here. The only upside was that her dragon — Sōnar, did she call it? — had seemingly stopped considering him a threat. Aside for Maester Aemon, its blue eyes narrowed suspiciously at anyone who made any sudden movements, but it didn’t seem to care what Jon was doing anymore.

It relieved Jon that it wouldn’t hurt him should he accidentally startle Lyaella, but why was it calm around him now when everyone else was clearly untrustworthy in its eyes? What was so special about him? Should he be worried the dragon might do something else to him later?

The door to the kitchens swung open. Gilly carried a small tin plate and a tiny cup while Sam trailed behind her, heaving a rather large and heavy bucket.

“Here yeh go,” Gilly said kindly, setting the meal and drink down before Lyaella. “I know it’s not much, but I think yeh’ll like it,”

Lyaella didn’t look up at her, but she nodded, appreciative. “Thank you.”

“Um… your dragon doesn’t have a preference between raw meat and cooked, right?” Sam asked, nearly dropping the pail as he slowly tottered up to the table. “Or does it have a preference as to what it likes?”

She shook her head, eyes still averted. “No, Sōnar will… will eat almost any m-meat. And she likes it cooked, but don’t w-worry about that.”

“N-No, really! It’s fine!” Sam insisted, his eyes snapping at once to the dragon as it fixed its ice blue eyes on him. “I-I-I can go back and cook it! Don’t want to get her mad!”

He started to turn.

“You misunderstand. You shouldn’t w-worry about it because… because S-Sōnar prefers doing that herself.”

Ice gathered in his veins when he saw how Sam blanched. “Say that aga—”

The dragon unexpectedly trilled. Shouts of alarm filled the lodge as the dragon hurried up to Sam. Sam paled. He dropped the bucket and moved to stand protectively in front of Gilly and young Olly. Olly tried to maintain a brave expression, but no one missed how his knees were quaking. Gilly at least seemed appreciative of his protection. She whimpered fearfully while taking Little Sam back from the younger boy and cradled her baby close to chest, even twisting her whole torso around to keep the dragon from having a clear view of her son.

Sōnar didn’t focus on any of that, though. No, the dragon’s attention was riveted on the fat, bloody slabs of pork from a slaughtered pig that were strewn out across the floor. Clearly Lyaella hadn’t been lying when she said her dragon was starving. Fat rivulets of drool trailed from its jaws as it approached the pail, a ravenous look in its blue eyes. It was only a few steps away from it when Lyaella abruptly stood.

“No, no, no, Sōnar,” she cooed, still pointedly avoiding looking at everyone. “We’ve t-talked about this. Remember your manners.”

Wait… what?

Did he hear that right?

He… He was hallucinating. He had to be. There was no way this little girl really just said that. She did not honestly tell this dragon to remember its—

She hopped out of her seat and teetered up to the fallen bucket, eyes downcast and steps small yet quick. Without a word, she bent down, scooped the meat back into the pail, and let out a rather loud groan as she struggled to lift it off the floor by the handle.

“Argh!” she whined, barely managing to budge it more than an inch. “C-Come… Come on…! Move!”

Everyone gawked at her, all previous fear or anger wiped out of their minds. What on earth was she doing?

Her dragon rumbled, indignant. It pointedly nudged her with its snout.

“S-Stop that, Sōnar! You… You can eat… in a… in a m-minute! We… we have to… to be p-polite to… to t-the Night’s Watch!”

The rest of the Watch exchanged bewildered looks, but Jon couldn’t sit idly aside anymore. He ignored his baser instincts screaming at him to stay out of the way and approached her.

“Do you… Do you want to explain what you’re doing?”

She dropped the bucket and doubled over, panting heavily. “I… I’m t-trying to… to carry this outside…”

“Why?

“Because… Because Sōnar’s gonna t-try to… to flame roast this meat… It’d be rude of her to… to do that here. The whole place w-would catch fire…”

Silence. Heavy silence. Then-

“I’ll take it out!”

“No, I will! I’m faster!”

“You’re both skinny and weak! I’m stronger than both of you together! Give it here!”

There was a mass scramble as people nearly ran each other over in their rush to collect the bucket and get it out the door. No one intended to die today due to a hungry dragon, be it on purpose or by accident.

Lyaella squeaked as she jumped aside so they could get the bucket out the door. “Um… t-thank you,” she called out shyly, wringing her hands a bit as they ran outside. Sōnar was right on their heels, rumbling eagerly as she vanished through the doorway.

Jon shook his head in disbelief, still trying to wrap his mind around it all. “Next time, warn us in advance if there’s a chance your dragon might breathe fire. No one wants to get slow roasted alive.”

Her face caught fire as she drooped her head. “I… I will…”

Forcing an awkward smile, she scurried back to the table. Jon lingered back a few steps as she slowly ate. She had good table manners. A spare rag given to her as a napkin on her lap, properly using her utensils. Had he any small doubts about her not being from South of the Wall, they were gone now. The Free Folk cared little for table etiquette. Mance and Tormund recognized this, too.

“Yeh all believe us now, right?” Mance snorted. “That lass is too much of a kneeler to be free.”

Thorne scowled from his seat at the High Table. “Can it, Rayder. You and that Wildling ruffian next to you keep your traps shut unless asked otherwise!”

“We don’t answer to yeh, crow! We’re the Free Folk! We choose who we follow!” Tormund spat.

Thorne fumed and gritted his teeth. He opened his mouth to spit out another insult, but Stannis raised a hand to stop him. “The animosity between the Night’s Watch and you Wildlings matters little right now. There are far more pressing matters to discuss.”

Jon was inclined to agree with him. Tormund rolled his eyes in annoyance, but he otherwise kept silent, and Mance silently nodded once, rather firmly. Thorne was the only one who didn’t immediately set aside his anger and hatred. If anything, Stannis’ words made him puff red with rage. There was a long pause, but finally he stiffly sat back in his chair with a loud huff. Jon only hoped the acting-Lord Commander could keep his temper in check for at least the remainder of the time Lyaella was here inside. Should he lose his patience and snap at her, they’d lose the chance to question her on wherever it was she came from. After all, they barely managed to get her into the Main Hall now. Should she run off before they were done asking questions, who was to say she’d ever try answering them again?

Lyaella just ignored them. Her hands trembled as she cut up a small bit of meat, but she kept her eyes fixated on her food. Even when she swallowed and reached for her cup, she didn’t glace up. She refused to make eye contact with anyone.

Thorne wasn’t ready to accept this behavior anymore, though. “Child, we all know you’re scared, but we only want to talk. We just have questions we need you to answer.”

Lyaella kept eating, her hands shaking harder than ever.

Thorne closed his eyes, visibly reigning in his frustration. When he finally opened them again, everyone could see that a tired smile was on his lips. “Listen — Lyla, is it? — I can understand if you don’t want to talk, but unless you do, the Night’s Watch will be forced to throw you and your dragon out. You’re afraid of the stag king? He won’t be the only one who’ll be on your tail if we do that.”

She still didn’t say anything, but she did glance up at him.

Thorne puffed out his chest a bit. That was a start, if nothing else. “We’ve been forced to cut off contact with the rest of Westeros for the past week until you started talking. No one’s left, no one’s entered Castle Black. And no one’s been allowed to send or receive ravens, just so we could make sure word about you and that dragon of yours would stay hidden. We can’t stay that way forever. If you want to stay here at Castle Black without worrying whether or not we’ll tell people about you, you need to give us a reason why we should keep your existence a secret. We can’t have you stay here any longer if you won’t.”

Her lower lip quivered and she glanced off to the side, trying to hide her watery eyes.

Thorne sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Lyla…”

She refused to glance back at him.

“Do you want us to reach out to your family? Would that help?” Jon cut in. “We could… look for your parents, at least. Maybe we’ll find that brother of yours with them.”

She turned to him, surprised. It almost seemed like a multitude of feelings were flicking across her face all at once — surprise, nervousness, anger, sadness, longing… The first four could almost be explained away, but it was how she stared at him with that last one that made him uneasy. She looked… almost desperate for him to understand her, to be compassionate. _Why?_

“Tory and m-me… lived with our N-Northern relatives,” she murmured, tone suddenly very quiet. “We’ve never… We’ve n-never known our parents…”

A few murmurs traveled across the room at that, but Jon didn’t join in. Instead, he patted her shoulder and smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that. Most of my family’s gone, too. I never knew my mother, either. She might be gone too for all I know.”

She weakly smiled.

Thorne banged his mug down hard on the table. “Lord Snow, no one asked for your opinion, so keep that bastard mouth of yours shut! Now, Lyla—”

“I’m a S-Snow too, you know…”

Jon jolted. Lyaella had reverted back to her closed shell again, and she was clutching her fork so tightly, her hand was white. She stared at it pointedly, refusing to look up at the acting-Lord Commander.

Thorne blinked. Repeatedly. “What?”

She reached for her knife. “My… My name is Snow. Just like him… and my first name isn’t L-Lyla, it’s _Lyaella._ Say it like… like this: Ly—ah—el—lah, w-with the ‘ah’ and ‘el’ almost on top of each other.” She popped a bit of pork in her mouth and washed it down with water. Her eyes wandered miserably off to the side, staring at nothing in particular. “I d-don’t want to talk to you. Not when… when you can’t say my first name, and don’t… don’t respect _anyone_ with a S-Snow surname…”

There was a long pause. Thorne flinched, eyes so wide and expression so startled it was as though she slapped him. People did their best to suppress their laughter by either coughing loudly or clearing their throats. Others who were far bolder whispered their amusement.

“Wow…”

“Look at Thorne!”

“The little girl shut him up!”

“Outsmarted him, you mean.”

Jon could only stare, his mind entirely blank. What was up with this girl? Why was she acting miffed simply because Thorne snapped at him? He didn’t like how the former knight treated him, but he was used to it. What was her deal?

Stannis’ company stayed silent, but they too found Lyaella’s honesty refreshingly witty. Lady Melisandre smiled openly, gazing at Lyaella with a contemplative expression. Davos rubbed his nose a bit to hide a quiet snicker. Stannis said nothing, but his lips turned up ever so slightly. It was only for a fraction of a second, but it was still more than enough to reveal his true feelings.

Even Mance and Tormund were amused, the former snorting and grinning. “It’s a sad day when a shy little girl has bi’er balls than the rest of yeh lot.”

Tormund chortled, not caring what anyone thought about him. “Yeh’re right there, Mance. Oy, King Crow! Yeh sure that girl’s not yer daughter?”

This time, lots of people openly laughed. Jon reddened and forced a weak chuckle, but Lyaella seemed mortified. She bent her head so her long hair hid her face and stared down at her half-finished plate, unwilling to say anything further.

“Right, sure she is, Tormund. Who else could she be?” he said dryly.

Gray eyes peeked up at him from behind the long, silvery curtain. He couldn’t make out her expression, but he hoped she wasn’t upset with him. He just needed Tormund to shut up before he said something even more humiliating.

“That’s enough! Quiet down!” Thorne ordered. It took a few moments, but gradually the laughter lulled down again. “Good. Now, back to the matter at hand. Seems to me, that Lyla is — sorry, Lya- Lyalala — Lela—”

 _“Lyaella,_ ser…”

More quiet snickers and amused whispers.

Thorne’s jaw clenched. Jon wasn’t sure if his anger was directed at everyone laughing or at himself. “Right, sorry. Well, is seems like you are most at ease speaking to the Wildling-lover steward than you are when speaking to the rest of us. So, Lord Snow, you’re gonna handle these questions.”

His stomach dropped. “Ser Alliser?”

Thorne fixed him with a mocking jeer. “Talk to your so-called daughter for us, Lord Snow. We all have questions here, and if she’s only gonna be fully at ease around you, then you have to ask them!”

Jon blanched. This really wasn’t his day, was it? Why were the Old Gods pushing him closer to this girl? Was this punishment for breaking Ygritte’s heart? For not leaving to help Robb when he went war? Or was for simply being born a bastard? They had to be having a good laugh at him somewhere up above.

Still, he simply nodded in agreement. Should he argue with the ex-knight on this, Thorne would have him emptying chamber pots for a week. And even though he didn’t like it, Thorne actually had a point. For some reason, Lyaella Snow seemed more comfortable around him than anyone else here. Even Maester Aemon didn’t seem to make her lower her guard enough to subconsciously grab onto him when trying to hide. He didn’t get it, but that was the truth of the matter. There probably wasn’t anyone else here at Castle Black who she would even consider answering questions to.

He turned to her. “You don’t mind, do you? If I’m the one who questions you?

She lightly shook her head. “Mm-mm.”

“Okay, then let’s start off with an easy one. Where are you from?”

“S-South. South of here…”

“So you really aren’t part of Mance Rayder’s army?”

She shook her head again. “I… I’m n-not involved in a-any of that. And neither’s S-Sōnar.”

Tormund chortled, his chains jangling against each other. “There, yeh see? We weren’t lyin’.”

He looked quite proud of himself for the comment too upon noticing all the grumbles that spread across room from the more disgruntled brothers. Mance ignored their annoyance and was instead looking to Jon and Lyaella.

“I’ve got a question for yeh, kid, and I’m sure some people here have been wonderin’ it, too,” he said. “How’d yeh sneak into my camp with yer dragon without no one noticin’?” All the grumbling quieted down, everyone blinking as they turned to the King Beyond the Wall. Mance ignored their stares. “My people were attackin’ the Wall the night before, so yeh didn’t get in then. And even after the battle, we kept watch. Didn’t know if the crows would chase us back. No one saw yeh then, either.”

Stannis’ brows furrowed, but even he had to nod in agreement. “I had my army attack just after dawn. We wanted to catch his army off guard while they were still dead tired. It worked, but my officers all claim they saw no trace of you or your dragon during the attack itself. No one saw you at all until after that earthquake happened. Where were you hiding?”

Lyaella had seemed slightly tense when Mance had spoken, but Stannis’ words drew a quizzical frown. “E-Earthquake?”

Jon nodded. “Aye. Everyone heard you screaming right after. Where were you hiding when it happened?”

She only tilted her head to side, looking extremely puzzled. “I… I d-don’t know what you’re talking about. W-What earthquake?”

People stared, not even sure what to say. Jon blinked at her. Once. Twice. No, three times. “The… The earthquake. It started up literally minutes after King Stannis’ army attacked. We’re all lucky no one got seriously hurt… You _did_ feel it, right?”

Her gray eyes widened. “N-No. I didn’t know about that at all. I just w-woke up out there.”

“Woke up?”

She lowered her gaze and nodded. “Uh-huh… I don’t know why me and S-Sōnar ended up there. I mean, one minute, we were—” She cut herself off, suddenly quite nervous. Swallowing thickly, she reached into the collar of her dress and tugged out a silver pendant in the shape of a three-headed dragon. She fiddled with it idly between her fingers. “We… We w-weren’t beyond the Wall before. We weren’t…” She didn’t seem to know what else to say.

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “We just want to know what happened. You said you’re from South of the Wall. Where?”

“I… I’m a Northerner.”

“But where in the North?”

She tensed, shifting in her seat. “Some w-ways off…”

Jon frowned. “Where specifically, though?”

“Some ways off…”

There was a long pause. Others in the room were exchanging curious looks, but Jon only had eyes for Lyaella. She looked extremely uncomfortable about being in the direct spotlight, but she didn’t say anything further. Her lips stayed pressed in a tight line. Was she uneasy about sharing that information in front of Stannis Baratheon? Wherever she came from, she and that twin brother she mentioned had to be the best kept secrets in all of Westeros. If she was afraid of what Stannis would do with that information…

Perhaps someone could question her about that in private later. For now, it was better to just move on. “Well, what about your family?” he asked. “You mentioned something about having a brother, yes?

“Torrhen. We’re twins.”

“Right. You were screaming for him and someone named Shadow back in the woods when we first found you.”

“Shadow… h-he’s not a person. He’s our…” she paused, brows furrowing as she considered the question. “He’s m-more than a pet. H-He’s our companion… S-Sorta like an honorary b-brother, like Sōnar’s like a s-sister to us.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Shadow’s another animal friend. But he’s more than a p-pet to us… And he’s more T-Tory’s than mine, like Sōnar’s more mine than his.”

“Hold up, is this ‘Shadow’ your brother’s dragon?” Stannis cut in.

She blinked, befuddled, then slowly shook her head. “No. Why w-would you think that? Shadow’s no name for a dragon.”

A number of people chuckled. Stannis had no comment whatsoever.

“Getting back to your brother,” said Jon, “Ser Alliser had some men search the woods these past few days.”

“Wait… did you find T-Tory? Him and Shadow? Are they here, now? T-Take me to them, please!”

Thorne rose from his seat to get her attention. “No, I’m sorry. They combed every inch of that forest from sun up to sundown, but they didn’t find any silver-haired boys. Why did you think he was out there?”

She stared at him for a long moment, and then — quite unexpectedly — she broke out into a fit of _giggles._

“Silver hair? Y-You… You were looking for a boy with _silver hair?”_ She giggled even harder at her own question.

Aside from her laughter, one could hear a pin drop in the room from how quiet everyone else suddenly became. No one said anything. Jon had no idea what to think. It was good to see her laughing — it was the first time anyone had seen her laugh — but what was so funny? All Targaryen’s were known to have silver hair. It was a fact.

Thorne struggled to keep his brows from rising into his hairline. “What?” he asked, gruffly.

She brushed away a stray tear. “Torrhen and I are Snow’s. We’ve got… Northern traits, too,” she said. “And T-Targaryen’s also have v-violet eyes. Mine aren’t because… because I’ve g-got Northern gray eyes. But Torrhen’s got… Northern black hair and T-Targaryen eyes.”

Everyone gaped, frozen at their own stupidity. She was still somewhat amused, but she shied away from all the stares and instead focused on trying to muffle her snickers as she ate a bit more on her plate. Maester Aemon was the only one there to actually chuckle at her explanation.

“Ah, your brother looks more like a classic Blackfyre. It’s been a long time since an illegitimate Targaryen boy was out in the world,” he mused. “Ser Alliser, were any of your men able to find a young boy with such a description out there?

There was a brief pause, then Thorne slowly turned to a small group of rangers sitting at another table. They all promptly shook their heads and started babbling out denials.

Lyaella’s smile promptly died. “Oh… I-I-I was hoping you’d find him. Him and Shadow…”

“Hey, just because they didn’t find them now doesn’t mean they won’t,” Jon offered. “They weren’t looking for a boy like that before. Now that they know what your brother looks like, they can search again.”

She only shook her head at him. “No. It’d only… It’d only be a waste of t-time. If Torrhen and Shadow were out there, they’d have gotten here already. They’d have come here t-to… to find me.”

He frowned again. “You don’t have to give up hope so soon, you know. For all you know, some of the Free Folk that weren’t rounded up could have found them.”

Mance nodded. “Aside from Thenn’s, my people wouldn’t hurt a boy yer age if he was alone on our side of the Wall and no crow. They might’ve taken him back with them to Hardhome.”

“Aye, don’t be so quick to assume he’s one of the dead, kid,” said Tormund.

Her eyes flashed a bit at the mention of the army of the dead, but before Jon question her about it, she sighed and shook her head again.

“I’m not assuming h-he’s gone forever. I… I meant that I don’t think he’s here here.” Her eyes wandered vacantly off to the side. “We m-must’ve ended up in different places…”

Okay, now they were getting somewhere. Time to ask more pertinent questions. He leaned forward. “Different places? What do you mean?”

She shifted in her seat again, uneasy. “Well… just w-what I said. I guess we wound up in different places…”

“Why, though? What happened to you and your brother?” he asked. “And what about those relatives you mentioned? Where are they? Why aren’t you with them?”

“Who are your relatives?” Stannis cut in, stepping forward a bit to make sure she saw him despite currently looking away from Jon and everyone else. “And your parents, for that matter? The last known Targaryens in the world is the maester sitting there, and the Targaryen girl currently in Essos.”

Her lower lip trembled, but she didn’t make eye contact with the stag king. She seemed quite determined to stay silent and not respond.

Thorne planted both his palms on the surface of the High Table to support his weight as he hanged his head, trying to hide a frustrated huff. “Come on, kid. We need you to explain these things. At the very least, tell us about your family.”

She still wouldn’t respond. If anything, the extra probing made her shoulders start trembling. Her hesitance didn’t matter to everyone else, though. If anything, it made everyone all that more desperate to pry her for information.

“Who are your parents?”

“Where’d you come from?”

“How’d you get a dragon?”

“Are you in league with the Dragon Queen?”

“Is it one of her dragons?”

“You’re too young to have been born during the rebellion. How’d the Usurper miss your parents?”

“Are you really not a Wildling? It’s too bizarre that you-”

A shrill, unexpected wail suddenly pierced through the air, shushing all questions.

Jon’s heart lurched in his chest as Lyaella burst into tears. She ignored everyone and shoved aside her empty plate and cup to hide her face into the table, wrapping her arms around her head. Her sobs wracked through her body, not caring what anyone thought about her as she fell apart. It was all too much for the little girl. Too many people. Too many questions. Too overwhelming. She couldn’t keep it bottled up any more, apparently. She needed to let it out.

An awkward, guilty silence overtook everyone as they watched. What else could they do? She was just a little girl, and it was their fault she had gotten so overwhelmed.

Maester Aemon smiled sadly, reaching out to try feeling around for her. Upon bumping his hand against her back, he patted it kindly “There, now. It’s all right,” he said. “Everyone just got a little impatient, that’s all. It’s been a long time since any of us were children, and we were overexcited. We forgot how things must be from your perspective.”

She kept crying and didn’t look up, but her sobs did muffle down somewhat from the older Targaryen’s words. No one else seemed willing to offer her any comfort. And why should they? The Night’s Watch had little experience with children due to their vows. Aside from young boys around Olly’s age who sometimes chose to take the black, they never saw any kids. And Stannis and his people? Stannis’ daughter was around Lyaella’s age, but unless there was some other child hidden somewhere in his forces, Jon didn’t think he spent a lot of time around children either. And as far as he knew, Stannis still had every reason to suspect Lyaella was a threat to him. Jon didn’t know for sure what the Baratheon king thought about her, but the point remained he wasn’t going to do anything. Those in his service wouldn’t, either. They were loyal to Stannis, and Stannis had yet to make a public declaration regarding his thoughts on Lyaella. Until then, they were forced to abide by neutrality of the Night’s Watch and do nothing to her.

Jon didn’t know why this bothered him so much. Like everyone else, he had nothing to do with this girl. What happened to her wasn’t his problem. So… why did her tears bother him so much?

He gently touched her shoulder. “Listen, if you’re worried about any of us or Stannis or… or the Bolton’s or Lannister’s doing something to you or your family, forget about that for a minute. We just want some basic information.”

She wouldn’t look up. If anything, she trembled even more.

He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “Please, Lyaella. Please…”

Her tears quieted down, but aside from that, she still didn’t respond. She just sat there with her face still hidden behind her arms on the table surface.

Jon glanced back over at Thorne. To his relief, Thorne didn’t appear upset with him. If anything, he looked just as much at a loss as he was on what to do now.

“W-We were attacked…” He snapped back around. Lyaella’s words were a little bit muffled considered she didn’t sit up, but everyone heard them. “They attacked us…”

He blinked. “What?”

Another quiet sob escaped her as she looked up, her face all red and puffy. “T-Tory and me… They attacked us. Us, Shadow, and… and S-Sōnar! They killed… They k-killed the… the…” she trailed off, then burst into tears all over again. “They k-killed the priests and the priestess! Just because they wanted to help me and Torrhen!”

No one said anything for a short time as she cried. They simply stared at her, unsure what to say.

Unwilling to let someone else take control of questioning Lyaella again and scaring her back into silence, Jon forced himself to speak. “Wait, back up. What priests and priestess?”

More tears flooded her eyes. With a shaky hand, she wordlessly pointed to Melisandre.

Quick as a flash, Stannis turned to his adviser. “Do you know this child? Why did you not tell me about her or this brother of hers?”

She shook her head, but her eyes stayed fixated on Lyaella. “No, my king. I have never met this girl or her brother before, nor have I seen visions of either of them in the flames prior to meeting her.” She looked even more intrigued than before, and with a raised brow, she studied the small girl. “That being said, I suppose I am not the only follower of R’hollor to venture this far North.”

Red skirts swished around Melisandre as she glided up to their table. Nodding briefly to Jon, she knelt down to Lyaella’s level to look her right in the eye.

“Do you know another red priestess? Or other priests?”

Choking back a muffled sob, Lyaella nodded. “N-Not very well, but yes.”

“Who were they?”

“I… I only met them once. I didn’t catch the priests’ names.”

“What about the priestess? Do you know her name?”

Lyaella trembled. Pressing her lips together, she wiped away the fresh wave of tears threatening to burst free from her eyes and let her eyes travel elsewhere.

Melisandre smiled. “So you do know it. Who is she?”

She bit her lip, refusing to answer.

“Child, please. The Lord has plans for us all, and if he arranged for you to meet a fellow red priestess prior to meeting myself and the Prince that was Promised, then you must be part of his plan to ensure the one true king shall one day reclaim his birthright. Tell me her name, and where you last saw her.”

More tears sprung forth from her eyes as she shook her head. “I-I-I can’t…”

“Please, you must. Who was she?”

“No… I can’t t-tell you that.”

“Lady Snow—”

“I can’t tell you! She t-told us not to talk about certain things to anyone! _I can’t!”_

It seemed like it would take a miracle to get this little girl to stop crying. And Melisandre’s questions certainly weren’t helping matters. She frowned as she glanced back over to Stannis. Stannis sighed and silently jerked his head for her to return, which she did. He was disappointed by the lack of information, but at least he wasn’t going to pry it out of the girl when she was so upset.

Jon waited until Melisandre was next to Stannis again before clearing his throat. Wet gray eyes focused on him. “You said and your brother were attacked?” She sadly nodded. “By who?”

Another sob escaped her. She hung her head and stared down at a knot in the wooden tabletop. Her shoulders trembled, a clear sign she was going to cry again.

“Okay, forget that for now,” he said quickly. “We’ll come back to that question later. For now, how about we go back to the beginning?”

“The… The b-beginning?”

Jon nodded, wracking his brains. “Aye, the beginning.” What could he ask her? He needed to ask her something that would both placate everyone’s curiosity, yet wouldn’t make her break down in tears again. This little girl was a mess right now, and whatever happened was enough to make her shut down entirely if she was probed too much on a question she either couldn’t or wouldn’t share details about. What to do…?

Then it hit him. Sometimes, the best questions to ask were most important ones, but _only_ if they were presented in the right way.

“You’re descended from House Targaryen. Between your silver hair and that dragon of yours, that’s obvious.”

She sniffled and nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Yet you’re also a Northerner, and a bastard. Your accent, your surname, and your brother’s first name are all clear signs of that.”

She didn’t reply, but she did straighten up to look at him properly.

“Well, then who are your parents?”

She froze, eyes going impossibly wide. “M-My… My parents…?”

“Aye. Who are they? It’s odd enough that some unknown Targaryen descendant somehow escaped notice during the rebellion and survived. But you’re too young to have been born before or during it. And stranger still, you’re a Northerner. After what happened to my late grandfather and uncle by the Mad King and my aunt with Prince Rhaegar… it’s weird that any Northerner would have been involved with a secret Targaryen. So who are your parents?”

He half-expected her to get all weepy again. To start bawling as she claimed she and her brother somehow got separated from them parents during whatever attack had apparently happened. But she didn’t. No, instead she just stared at him for the longest time, almost too shocked by what he had asked to respond. Even when she finally managed to blink and break eye contact, she still didn’t anything. She just… stared down at her lap with the oddest expression.

“I… I don’t… Torrhen and me? O-Our parents…”

She shook her head lightly at every failed attempt to speak. It was like she wanted to answer this question, but didn’t know how to do it.

Jon was thoroughly puzzled, and he couldn’t help but glance over at Sam and Edd across the room. While Edd was keeping a close eye on Olly and Sam was preoccupied on making sure Gilly and Little Sam were okay, they still met his gaze with equal confusion. They weren’t the only ones, either. Pretty much everyone in the Main Hall were exchanging befuddled looks with one another, but they all had the sense not to whisper this time. One wrong move, and Lyaella would clam up and start crying again. If they wanted to get answers like this out of her, everyone had to shut up and let her explain in her own time.

It seemed to take ages, but finally she let out a heavy sigh. “Gone. Torrhen and I n-never… never had them. We were raised by our N-Northern relatives.”

“Well, who are your relatives then?”

Her expression soured. “T-Terrible people.”

“What—? No, who are they?”

“Terrible people.”

“That’s not what I’m—”

“They’re terrible p-people. End of story.”

Quite a few people grumbled at that. Even Jon had to take a deep breath to keep his patience in check. Getting exact details from Lyaella was going to be harder than he expected.

“Why do you say that?” he asked, his voice tight. “What makes you so sure, I mean?”

She rigidly looked up at him. All prior traces of her being upset and depressed were wiped clean from her face. There was no hint of warmth in her eyes whatsoever. “Because our parents are dead because of them. And T-Tory and I got separated because… because _they_ were the ones who attacked us and the p-priests.”

Silence.

Heavy silence.

Heavy, unending silence.

No one seemed to know what to say, least of all Jon. He stared at her, lips parting a bit at what she just revealed. Her relatives did something like that? That couldn’t be true. But there was no sign whatsoever that Lyaella was lying. She looked bitter, there was no denying that, but she was looking him right in the eye right now. She wasn’t fidgeting, she wasn’t letting her eyes wander about nervously. She was entirely calm right now.

“I d-don’t know where Torrhen and Shadow are, but I know they wouldn’t b-be with our… our relatives. Torrhen w-would _never_ stay with them if I w-wasn’t there,” she said. “And I f-feel the same way. I’m not s-saying who they… who they are. I’m not going back to them. N-Not alone…”

Stannis stepped forward. “That’s not good enough. We need more information than that.”

“N-No. I… I’m done.”

“Child-”

“No!” she snapped, new angry tears glistening in her eyes. “Y-You… You all wanted answers. I g-gave them. They’re just not answers you want to hear… I w-won Truth-or-Half-Truth s-since I answered honestly! So that’s enough!”

Stannis’ brows shot up at her tone, but before he could say anything, she rubbed her eyes with the back of her wrist and went on.

“I t-told you all the truth… I didn’t want to answer your questions, b-but I did. I w-was honest… Whatever you all think of m-me and Sōnar, you can’t say I lied. S-So… So if you’re all gonna kill me or g-give me to people who… who will kill me, then hurry up and d-do it already. You’ll be doing the Lannisters and me and T-Tory’s relatives a favor… They won’t h-have to get their hands d-dirty, this time…”

It was shocking how matter-of-fact she was when saying all that. She considered her relatives to be in the same league as the Lannisters? Jon couldn’t wrap his head around the idea. She was telling the truth, or at least she honestly believed she was.

Sniffling hard, she rose from her seat. “I’m n-not telling you anything else, so… so if that’s all, I’m gonna go check on Sōnar. If she’s s-still hungry, she’ll try looking for her own f-food. And roasting it the w-way she likes the minute she does.”

She didn’t stick around and wait for a reply. She sped off as soon as she was done and was out the door before anyone could blink.

No one said anything at first, as they were still trying to process both what Lyaella had revealed and her abrupt exit. But then everyone seemed to gather their composure all at once, and the Main Hall soon became a buzzing hive of chatter.

Jon didn’t partake in all the curious musings or shouts of ideas on what they ought to do now that Lyaella had explained a few things. No, he stood from the table and shuffled through the crowd to follow her outside. It wasn’t right, letting her run off like that when she was clearly still upset. Someone should check to see if she’s okay.

Sure enough, she was with her dragon again out in the snow. The contents of the bucket of meat were strewn out across the ground, and like Lyaella had warned them, the land was charred and cindered underneath the servings due to being flame roasted.

“You enjoying dinner, girl?” Lyaella asked, scratching the underside of Sōnar’s scaly head. “You’re not still hungry, right? I’ll… I’ll go a-ask for more, if you want.”

Hooting lightly, her dragon simply nudged her a bit with her snout and continued eating. Lyaella giggled.

“Okay, you’re good then. Good to know.”

“Aye, everyone’ll be glad to know we won’t have to go on huge hunts every day to keep her fed.”

Lyaella jumped and looked up. She was initially quite startled, but upon realizing that it was, she relaxed considerably.

“Oh, h-hello again,” she said, smiling shyly. “I… I didn’t think you’d f-follow me out here.”

Jon approached, keeping one on her dragon at all times. “Just… wanted to see if you’re all right,” he shrugged. “I know what it’s like to miss my siblings, after all.”

“Mmm,” she murmured, her smile suddenly quite fixed.

An awkward pause filled the air for a moment, but it ended when Sōnar suddenly rumbled and headed over to where the last piece of charred meat was lying — less than six inches away from Jon’s left boot. He frantically jumped out of the way, making sure to stay at least five feet away from the dragon at all times.

Lyaella giggled. “Don’t worry, Sōnar knows to be careful. She w-won’t hurt you.”

“Right…” he said, humorlessly smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Y-You can feed her, if you want. Or pet her. S-Sōnar loves being… being scratched under her chin.”

“Uh, no thanks. I’m good…”

An odd sound escaped the dragon, almost a mix between a squawk and a deep rumble. And the way it was eying him as it scarfed down that last bit of meat… if he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was amused by his nervousness. As soon as it was done, it turned and strolled towards him.

“Woah, there! Easy!” Jon exclaimed, hurriedly backing away. “Easy, there!”

It warbled and kept trying to get close. Lyaella let out a merry stream of laughter. “Look at that! She wants you to pet her!” she giggled, completely stutter-free this time. “Go ahead, try it! She’ll probably try smelling you as you do.”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as the dragon’s eyes locked with his own. “W-Why? To smell if I taste good?” he asked, his mouth going dry.

“What? No, of course not. She just w-wants to memorize your scent. She won’t hurt y-you, I promise.”

Memorize his scent? What for? To remember who to eat first in retaliation should someone attempt to hurt it or its little mistress? Not a chance. “Um… Maybe later. Take all the time you want out here, okay? Just come back in when you’re ready.”

He swiftly turned and walked as fast as he could without running back to mess hall.

“Wait… why’re you g-going back?” he heard her ask. “Can’t you stay out h-here longer?”

“I’m part of the Night’s Watch, and we have yet to finish our meeting.”

“Oh… okay…”

The disappointment in her tone made him pause and glance back. She didn’t even realize he had stopped to look back at her. She was all mopey as she scuffed away a chunk of snow near her boot, crushed by his answer.

Guilt ate away at him. Why did this bother him so much? How on earth was he supposed to keep himself at a fair distance from this girl when she looked so dejected like that?

He sighed, fully turning to face her. “By the way, thanks.”

She jerked and glanced up at him, puzzled.

“Thanks for what you said back there, to Ser Alliser. For defending me as fellow Snow,” he clarified. It was the only thing he could think of on what he could tell her right then. “Not many people have ever stood up for me like that before.”

Sure enough, she happily smiled at him. “I was happy t-to. I… I know what it’s like, after all. I c-can count on one hand the number of p-people I’ve met that don’t care about mine and T-Tory’s Snow surname. We’re… We’re exactly the s-same there.”

He lightly shrugged. “Aye, I guess we are.” It was weird to have something in common with the Targaryen bastard child, but she was right about that.

She beamed. Then, without warning, she darted forward and gave him a quick hug. He jolted a bit, startled, but before he could do or say anything, she let him go, made a fast curtsy, and zipped back over to her dragon with her face all aglow.

She made no effort to meet his gaze again, but Jon just stood there for several moments, too stunned to move. She was a kind girl, albeit rather shy and fearful of others upon first meeting them, but her true innocent nature really blossomed when she opened up around those she seemed to like or trust. Why she apparently chosen him out of everyone at Castle Black to be the one she apparently trusted the most, he didn’t know. But this action just further confirmed he had to keep his distance from her.

He could not get attached to this child. He could not start wondering what his life would’ve been like had he chosen to stay with Ygritte.

Swallowing thickly, he nodded one final time to Lyaella and went back inside. It still hurt, the death of the free-spirited archer he had loved. He had always known he would have to betray her, he was sworn to his vows, but his choice to stay true to them as opposed to her hadn’t been easy. There were so many times he had considered truly abandoning the Watch and staying with her. But he had made the right choice. The Night’s Watch needed him if they were to ever have a chance at defeating the army of the dead. The realm needed him here. Not playing house and trying to have a family of his own. It’s the whole reason he joined the Watch, after all. Bastards had no chance of having a happy family.

Back in the Main Hall, people were still chattering away or yelling suggestions on what to do with Lyaella. No one seemed to have missed Jon’s absence at all. That was good. Last thing he needed was to end up in the spotlight again. He slipped over to where Edd and Sam were standing off on the sidelines before someone could suggest he should move to the front.

His friends both nodded in greeting as he joined them. “Did I miss anything?”

“Not really,” said Edd. “Stannis has been relatively quiet over there, but that’s just because he’s been whispering to those two advisers of his since the girl left. No clue what he thinks about her story.”

“Thorne did something interesting, though,” said Sam.

“Oh?” said Jon. “What?”

“He made Slynt leave the High Table. He all but dragged Maester Aemon back up there and they’ve been talking non-stop since you and Lyla— no, _Lyaella_ left.”

Jon’s brows shot up. Slynt was one of Thorne’s personal lackeys. Why would possess him to do that? He looked over. Sure enough, Slynt was glaring so hard at Thorne from his seat at one of the lower tables directly in front of the High Table, his whole face was bulging red, veins popping out his neck. Interestingly enough, Thorne was completely ignoring him. He was ignoring everyone’s yelling and arguing as he whispered animatedly to Maester Aemon. What was going on?

He got his answer less than five minutes later when the acting-Lord Commander started banging his mug repeatedly on the table. “All right, all right, you lot! Quiet down!” he yelled. “Maester Aemon and I have an idea on what to do about that child!”

The commotion quickly died down. Everyone in the Night’s Watch leaned in close, wanting to hear the possible solution on what they could do about Lyaella Snow. Stannis immediately hushed his discussion with Davos and Melisandre to listen in. Even Mance and Tormund were curious as to what their idea was.

“When the Night’s Watch was first created, it was founded with the idea that its structure would be different from the rest of Westeros,” Thorne began. “We do not blindly follow people simply because they were born to lead. We _choose_ who we want to lead us, who we want to make hard choices for us. That is why there is a Choosing whenever the current Lord Commander dies.”

“Jeor Mormont is dead, though,” someone in the crowd called out. “He was our Lord Commander.”

“Aye! We haven’t had a Choosing yet!” yelled another. “You’re only temporarily fulfilling that role for now!”

Thorne’s face tightened. “I’m aware of that!”

“Then where are you going with this?”

“I’m getting there! The point is, we all need a Lord Commander to make hard choices whenever we all cannot come to a decision on our own. That is exactly what is happening now regarding Layla- Lela- argh, Leela—”

Many snickered, unable to hide their amusement. Jon didn’t, but a ghost of a small grin flashed across his face, too fast for anyone to truly notice.

Thorne growled, aggravated with himself. _“—the girl!_ That is exactly what is happening now regarding _the girl!_ She is currently our guest here at Castle Black, but because she is _not_ part of Stannis Baratheon’s party, we are not obligated to hand her over to him… No disrespect intended,” he added quickly, turning to the man in question. “That is not an insult, simply a fact.”

Stannis said nothing, but Jon noticed how his jaw clenched ever-so slightly by the lack of respect towards his king title.

“At the same time, she might have been found on the wrong side of the Wall, but I think we can all agree that she is _not_ Wildling.”

Mance and Tormund both chuckled, amused that they were finally being believed.

Thorne scowled, but otherwise ignored them. “Our duty has men of the Watch compels us to keep the raiders from pillaging the rest of Westeros, that is why we lost over fifty brothers last week when their army attacked. However… there is nothing in our vows that says we must keep out children who belong on our side yet mysteriously ended up out there out. As this child is not a Wildling, we cannot kill her for that reason alone.”

“But she’s a Targaryen bastard with a dragon! She could grow up into a madwoman!”

“No, Ser Alliser’s right! She’s just a child! We should just give her some supplies and throw her out!”

“I don’t care what that girl or those savages sitting over there said! She was found beyond the Wall! She _is_ a Wildling! We have to kill her and that dragon now and be done with it!”

“No! We must contact Lannister’s!”

“Fuck the Lannister’s! _That’s_ the true king standing over there! Give her King Stannis!”

“The Dragon Queen is the true heir! We should figure out how to contact Daenerys Targaryen!”

_“SILENCE!”_

All arguing stopped immediately. Thorne’s booming shout made dust float down from the rafters. No one dared to so much as breathe loudly.

Thorne waited a full three seconds before continuing on. “We all have different opinions on what to do about this Targaryen child. Because of this, we are unable to come to a unanimous decision about her,” he said slowly. “As I was saying before, it is because of matters like this that we need to have a new Lord Commander to make this choice for us. Is that not generally what happens?”

There were various murmurs of agreement.

“The problem remains however that we do not currently have a Lord Commander to make this decision,” said Maester Aemon. “That is why we both believe that the best course of action is to abstain from making a choice on what to do about Lyaella Snow.”

This surprised everyone, Jon especially. He leaned in even closer to hear better.

“We in the Night’s Watch will allow this girl to stay here for now,” Thorne declared. “Think of her as… an unofficial extended guest, like Tarly’s Wildling lover and her child. This will only be temporary. Once we’ve chosen a new Lord Commander, _he’ll_ be the one to decide on what to do about her. We believe this to be a fair choice all around. Do you all agree on this?”

For a little while, the sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch conversed quietly amongst themselves, mulling over all the pros and cons on whether or not to agree to this. But finally, gruff answers of agreement filled the lodge.

Thorne nodded in approval. “Good. Now, there are two rules regarding this child that I’m laying out now to you lot, and they are considered effective immediately. Rule number one, as the Night’s Watch is considered to be politically neutral from the rest of Westeros, this girl and her dragon are to stay a secret within the Night’s Watch, because if word gets out about her, we’ll be forced to choose sides on what to do about her if the Lannister’s send people up here, or the Dragon Queen herself. Not one word about her or her dragon leaves the Wall! All messages sent out on raven scrolls will be personally checked by me to make sure of this!”

Quite a few people grumbled, but no one dared to argue this.

“Rule number two… I’m not gonna beat around the bush, here. While some of you might have come to the Wall as volunteers, most of you came to us as criminals. Thieves, murderers, rapists… I made it clear upon Stannis Baratheon’s arrival here at Castle Black what would happen to any man here who dared harm his wife, his daughter, or Lady Melisandre. They try to kill them, they lose their head. They try them, they lose their pecker and _then_ their head. Do you all remember that discussion? You do? Good. Well, that policy now extends to the Targaryen child! Anyone tries to kill her, their next stop is the executioners block! Anyone touches her, we’ll cut their cock off, feed it to Lord Snow’s direwolf, and _then_ chop their head off! _Have I made myself clear?!”_

The men were quick to nod this time. That mental image would be enough to keep the more dishonorable brothers from trying to harm young Lyaella Snow.

“Good. We have officially reached a decision, then. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” echoed all the brothers.

And that was that. The meeting was officially over. Lyaella was now an unofficial guest of the Night’s Watch until further notice.

Jon personally didn’t know what to make of that. While he was glad that the girl would be safe here at Castle Black for the time being, he also felt somewhat conflicted about this.

How was he supposed to keep his distance from this girl now?


	8. Not Everything Can Be Changed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last month on Leap Day, I posted chapter seven. The new coronavirus was spreading somewhat throughout Europe, but everything was still okay in America. Now, one month later, America is suffering from the pandemic and everyone is social isolating or in quarantine. I'm among the social isolaters. I'm just glad I planned ahead when I realized how bad the outbreak was getting overseas and managed to talk my mom into buying extra supplies in advance. My family's all stocked up to ride out this thing, and we're taking extra precautions to ensure none of us get sick. I hope all of you are staying healthy, too. Make sure to wash your hands! No one wants to get sick!
> 
> Also, I'm sure you've all heard by now that the Game of Thrones stars Kristopher Hivju and Indira Varma are among those who have unfortunately caught the virus. Please keep these two great actors in yours prayers! Get well soon, Tormund and Ellaria! We're all rooting for you!
> 
> In other news, I'm sorry it took me another full month to post this chapter, but considering I was helping my family prepare for everything what with the virus, I was very distracted this past month, especially since my anxiety levels have been off the chart with everything going on. Plus, I also need to focus on getting an online art portfolio posted online to promote myself as a freelancer. This story is my baby, hands down, but I can't focus on it 24/7 while social-isolating. I need to put my animation skills to good use and find a job in the animation field! However, I will also be doing Camp Nanowrimo this April to force myself to write more even when focusing on my artwork, so rest assured that I'll still be writing this story in my downtime.
> 
> Now, onto the usual stats for the story! Since the last chapter, I'm pleased to report that there are 276 kudos, 72 bookmarks, 6726 views, and we beat the comment goal yet again! 130 comments! Thank you, dear readers! Thank you so much! You've made me so happy! Virtual hugs to you all! I know we're all supposed to be social isolating right now, but virtual hugs aren't the same as real hugs, so I that's fine to do, lol! *HUGS! HUGS! HUGS!* As for the new comment goal for this chapter... how about we try to reach 150 this time? That's only 20 comments all together, not too much! Come on, readers! You know you can do it! Let's shoot for 150!
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support! I hope you all enjoy this next chapter! Just please comment when you're done to let me know what you think of it! :D
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> \- Elphaba818

His voice was hoarse and parched. His fingers ached from constant use. His whole body was hot and sticky with sweat, and he was pretty sure those bright splotches of red coating his arms were the beginnings of nasty sunburns. But none of that mattered.

All that mattered was keeping a smile on his face as he sang and played his lute. He had to. If he let his smile fall or mistimed a note, his audience would leave. This was the largest crowd he’d had all day, and their tips were the only way he and Shadow would avoid scavenging through trash for food tonight.

To call Torrhen’s life on the streets of Meereen a struggle would be an understatement. That one measly loaf of bread that jackass Daario Naharis gave him he’d been forced to split up into three separate meals for himself and his direwolf. Even then, it was the only bit of food either of them had for those three days. But that had been weeks ago, now. Since then, he’d been trying relentlessly to get back into the Great Pyramid and finally meet Daenerys Targaryen. Unfortunately, luck was never on his side. At first, the arrogant sellswords had been his problem. By order of their damn captain, they refused to let him join the long queue of citizens waiting to meet the queen each day. That was the annoying enough on its own, but then the Unsullied took over guard duty again and barred entry into the pyramid to _everyone_ in the city. His mother had closed her open court sessions to the common people — temporarily, the guards assured the citizens. It was only for a short time so she could prioritize her efforts in stopping the Sons of the Harpy attacks. That didn’t stop her soldiers from providing assistance to those who desperately needed help. Extra provisions were passed out first thing in the morning by the sellswords, and anyone who needed temporary housing was escorted to makeshift shelters for room and board until new permanent housing was built.

Sadly, extra food rations were only helpful to those who _weren_ _’t_ on the sellswords shit lists. Torrhen went to where the Second Sons passed out food first thing every morning to literally _beg_ for leftovers, but the sellswords refused to give him any more after his third appearance asking for scraps.

“There’s only a limited amount of food to go around, boy,” one told him. “The queen gave us orders to provide for _everyone._ Can’t keep passing it out to those who’ve gotten handouts before.”

“She’d want to see the homeless orphans in the city fed!” he’d retorted.

It hadn’t mattered, though. They refused to provide him with food, and they watched him like a hawk whenever they saw him, so he couldn’t even sneak a bit away. It pissed him off, but he couldn’t do anything about it. It was better to save his energy for arguing with the Unsullied guarding the pyramid entrance, anyway. Unlike the Second Sons who would either laugh or strike him if he refused to leave immediately, the Unsullied were unaffected by his desperate pleas to see the queen. Shadow even growled threateningly at them once before Torrhen ordered him to stand down, but even then the Unsullied showed no fear of the direwolf. They just droned the same thing every time: Queen Daenerys wasn’t holding court now. Come back another time.

Hence was why he had to resort to street performing every day just to survive. Singing and playing his lute was the only way he could earn money. Without money, he couldn’t buy food, and without food, he and Shadow would have died as soon as the Second Sons started denying them food rations. Even then, it was only on really good days he made enough to afford decent meals for himself _and_ Shadow. The people of Meereen were keeping their coin purses drawn tight because of the earthquake, and not everyone who stopped to listen to his songs knew the Common Tongue, so they had no idea what he was singing. After spending a considerable amount of time in Meereen, Torrhen had come to the conclusion that most of the former masters did in fact know the Common Tongue judging by how they sometimes stopped to listen to his songs. However, they hardly ever spared any coins for him, and when they did, they left only a coin or two. The freedmen were a bit more generous, as they could see he was alone and orphaned on the streets, but they couldn’t afford to give him much. A handful of coins and nothing more, and that was only from former slaves fortunate enough to have extra money to spare.

Thus was his life as a street urchin. Until he could get into the pyramid and meet his future mother, he had no choice but to repeat this cycle every day just to keep himself and Shadow alive.

He twanged the last few strings of his lute as his song ended, and he hopped down from the barrel he’d been sitting on to take a bow. Thank goodness his ankle had fully healed a few days back. He’d come to realize that people tended to tip better when he stood up and bowed whenever he finished a song. His audience clapped and cheered, but only a few of his listeners fished through their pockets for their money pouches.

Not a lot of earnings thins time around, but money was money. He made sure to spread out the scrunched-up wrinkles and folds in his cloak on the ground for people to deposit their donations on. One by one, a slight handful of Gold Honors trickled onto the fabric.

“Thank you, thank you very much!” he said earnestly. “Shadow and I appreciate your generosity!”

The black wolf had been sitting in the shade of an awning next to them and thumping his tail in tempo with his song. At the mention of his name, Shadow stood and trotted over to the crowd-goers. Pink tongue lolling out of his mouth, he let people pet him to their hearts content. So long as he appeared sweet and lovable to others, that could also bring in a few more coins occasionally.

Sure enough, a couple more Gold Honors were tossed into the pile. But it was only four more, totaling nine coins all together.

Seeing the small pile made Torrhen want to weep. That was barely enough for a crust of bread and maybe a Myrish orange depending on the vendor. What he needed was at least one good merchant or former master to tip him. They could afford to loosen their pockets if they wanted too. Stingy asses.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” he said with a forced smile. “But there’s plenty more to… to go around…”

His smile died as the crowd dispersed. They were tired of his songs apparently. Damn it!

Sighing at his eternal bad luck, the boy gathered up his earnings, depositing them into the small money pouch he’d found in the wreckage the other day when scavenging for supplies. “Well, at least we’ll be able to eat tonight, Shadow. But it’ll probably just be more bread again. Sorry, bud…”

Shadow whined, nuzzling up against his side.

“I know, I know. I’m tired of bread, too. But what else can we do, boy? It’s all we can afford.”

Panting heavily, his direwolf blinked sadly at him before plopping back down in his little shadowy spot. Torrhen wished he had the luxury of doing the same. He was a Northerner born and raised all his life in the longest, coldest winter ever known in the future. He wasn’t used to the scorching sun of Meereen, and the blasted heat made him so much more crankier and irritable than usual. And his fire flickered out twice since he’d been thrown out of the Great Pyramid, one time during the middle of a performance. Thank goodness Shadow stopped the audience from walking off with all their earnings on his cloak until he bounced back that time. Torrhen had no idea why his fire flickers were steadily increasing from only one or two every once in a while to a couple every week, let alone why he’d had those weird visions during the middle of one the other day, but he had bigger problems to worry about right now. He had to get inside the Great Pyramid and meet the queen before he and Shadow died from either malnutrition or were killed by the Sons of the Harpy. So far, he was pretty sure they weren’t interested in him or Shadow, but he argued with the Second Sons and the Unsullied on a daily basis. If that terrorist group somehow found out _why_ he was so desperate to meet the queen… that was a scenario he didn’t want to imagine. The only upside to all these troubles was that it wasn’t Summer. The Essos heat was unbearable enough now in Autumn. He didn’t even want to imagine how hot it must get on this continent during Summer.

“Maybe you should start howling along in tempo with my songs, Shadow. I know we haven’t quite perfected your howling while I play my lute, but it might attract a bigger crowd,” he suggested. “At the very least, we might get a few more coins for the effort. What do you say?”

Shadow whined, completely laying down and staring up at him with his head resting on his paws.

Torrhen scowled, plopping himself back down on the barrel and positioning his lute back on his lap. “Fine, don’t help. But don’t pout later when we’re eating bread instead of meat tonight…”

With no crowd to leave money, there was no point in singing. Better to save his voice for when he could be tipped generously. He just strummed his lute for awhile, hoping people might stop to listen. Sadly, there didn’t appear anyone in the nearby vicinity interested in his music. Citizens went about their day without even glancing in his direction. Annoying. Very annoying. Seems like he needed a better spot to attract a crowd.

Sighing again, he slid back off the barrel. “Come on, bud,” he mumbled, collecting his cloak and shaking out the dust and dirt. “Let’s find a better place to play.”

Shadow let out a low, half-hearted growl to show his displeasure.

He scowled at his wolf. “Knock it off! We need money, and we’re not gonna make any around here. We’ll head over to the market. People are always around there. Maybe a vendor will spare us some fruit, if we’re lucky. We’ve just gotta—”

“—shame what happened. Such a shame… What do you think she’ll do with him?”

“Is that even a real question?”

“Of course is it!”

“Well, I should think the answer’s obvious. She’s going to kill him. Just like she plans to do to the rest of us.”

“Do you really think that’s her plan?”

“Why else do you suppose she’s still here?! She left every other city right away, but she’s still here in ours? The Dragon Queen isn’t here to liberate the slaves. She’s here to conquer and destroy all of Slaver’s Bay!”

Torrhen whipped around. Two former masters were chatting as they strolled down the street. They didn’t even look twice at him or Shadow. He was just a filthy street orphan with an unusual pet, after all.

“She’s been generous to us nobles since the earthquake happened, though,” said the younger of the two. “I’ll admit she’s a bit more generous to the freedmen than us, but she’s shown she cares about us nobles. Maybe she’ll act fairly to that prisoner.”

His companion snorted. “You’re a fool. He was arrested because he’s part of the Sons of the Harpy. That foreign whore won’t show mercy to him! She’s gonna execute him without a trial, mark my words!”

“She cares about justice, though. Justice cannot be carried out without there first being a fair trial.”

“Did she give fair trials to all the nobles she crucified when she conquered Meereen?! No! Your _brother!_ My _father_ and _uncle!_ A hundred sixty-three men in our city! _Dead!_ She killed them without batting an eye! She’s a madwoman like they say her father was and she’s gonna—!”

Torrhen didn’t hear any more than that. They had passed him and were now too far away for him to overhear. But it didn’t matter. He’d heard all he needed to.

He felt numb, heavy. His mouth was dry, but swallowing took a great deal of effort. What he’d just heard…

“The… The noblemen crucifixions…” he whispered, his head reeling. “That… That really _happened?_ _”_

No… No, that couldn’t be true. His mother couldn’t have actually done that. That story was something his stupid Stark relatives in the original timeline had spun along with whatever surviving former masters in Essos to further portray Daenerys Targaryen as the Mad Queen. It wasn’t true! She couldn’t have done that! She couldn’t have… right?

“Bite me, Shadow.” Red eyes snapped to him, surprised. Torrhen was only vaguely aware of it. He was focused solely on the retreating forms of the two former masters as they continued down the street. “Bite me. Please. I… I need to know I’m not dreaming.”

With great reluctance, his wolf trotted up to him and half-heartedly nipped his hand. The twinge of pain was enough to snap the boy out of his shock, but his mind still felt disconnected from the rest of his body as he scratched Shadow appreciatively behind the ears.

Torrhen remembered his history lessons. Maester Marlon always loved gloating over this particular event during his mother’s reign as the Mad Queen to him and Lyaella. He still remembered how horrified and sickened he’d been when the two of them first learned about this when they were seven, he’d never forget how Lyaella clung to him while sobbing. Marlon had looked so smug as he total them all the terrible details about the crucifixions, claiming their mother had always been cruel and insane long before she sailed to Westeros. It’d been a terrible shock for them, learning all this. Following that awful history lesson, Torrhen had dragged his sister down to the crypts to talk about it. To his relief, Lyaella agreed with him about the story: it couldn’t be true. It was a lie spun by adults to further discredit their mother. It was the only thing that made sense considering Queen Yara always told them to never listen to all the bad things people said about her. Even Ser Davos and Lord Tyrion claimed she wasn’t always the monster people liked to automatically portray her as. But still… this particular story had ruffled them in a way that other stories about Daenerys Targaryen hadn’t. Crucifying nobles in a city that had already surrendered wasn’t the same thing as burning down King’s Landing for a throne. King’s Landing was partially for the throne, but it was also because the Stark’s plotting made their mother snap. The crucifixions, though? None of those nobles had been plotting against then, and the Sons of the Harpy hadn’t been established yet. Those were slow, torturous deaths solely for the sake of torture.

They hadn’t wanted to believe this tale, but they did reluctantly agree on one thing regarding it: if it was true, then it most likely _was_ one of earliest signs that Daenerys Targaryen really was mad all along.

Well, apparently it was true, and that meant he had to make contact with his future mother now more than ever. The longer it took him to finally meet her, the greater the chance her Targaryen coin flip would land on madness again rather than greatness.

Stomach churning at that horrible thought, he jerked his chin at his friend. “C’mon, Shadow. We’ve gotta—”

“Oy! Gather ‘round, all of you!”

“We’re here on behalf of Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen!”

“The queen has an important announcement, so gather ‘round!”

Torrhen and Shadow turned. Three of the Second Sons were marching down the road, yelling far and wide to gather everyones attention as they approached the biggest pile of rubble that had yet to be cleared away. Even after they climbed onto the wreckage, they kept their hands cupped around their mouths and continued yelling for people to come over. Considering how his previous encounters with the Second Sons had gone thus far, Torrhen was tempted to ignore them, but they’d said they were here on Queen Daenerys’ behalf for an important announcement. Any news from his future mother was a welcome one at this point. Nodding to his direwolf so he’d follow, the boy sped off to the gathering crowd.

“Everyone around listening?” asked the first sellsword. “Yes? Good. The queen has ordered us to spread the word. She’ll be leaving the Great Pyramid later this afternoon.”

“She has an important announcement for everyone in Meereen,” said the second. “She wants everyone to know she enforces justice above all else, and that everyone is expected to obey the law, former masters and freedmen alike.”

“This afternoon in the city square!” the last one called out. “Be sure to come!”

The crowd tittered curiously, but Torrhen didn’t hear them. Hope was swelling up inside him. The city square. His future mother was going to make an appearance this afternoon in the city square. This was his chance to finally meet her! Maybe his only chance…

With a smile so big it threatened to split his face, he bent down and excitedly ran his hands through the black fur of Shadow’s head and neck. “You hear that, boy? The queen’s gonna be in the square later! We’ll finally have a chance to meet her! What do you think?”

Yipping a bit, Shadow wagged his tail excitedly and pressed himself up against his boys’ legs. Torrhen laughed.

“All right, then! Let’s go!”

Keeping one hand firmly on his lute and the other grasping Shadow’s fur so they wouldn’t get separated, Torrhen turned and raced away down the dirt path.

* * *

She stared at the door. It was old, the wood chipped and rotting away, but still sturdy with a thick latch lock near the top. Ordinarily she’d be too tiny to reach that lock, but the small stool in the corner let her reach it easily. It wasn’t locked now, though. It was the middle of the day, and since she was sharing this chamber with her newly discovered distant uncle, the door had to stay unlocked so he and everyone else in Castle Black could visit the resident maester’s private workroom if they needed to. Now that Lyaella had been assured no one would be trying to kill her because of her Targaryen heritage, it was safe to venture beyond it and explore Castle Black as much as she wanted.

But… was it really safe? So long as she stayed in this room, no one could hurt her. Not while Sōnar stayed in here with her. Perhaps it was better to stay here. The fire in the hearth was so warm and comforting compared to the bitter cold outside. It was cramped in this small room, but still very cozy.

Then again, staying cooped up in here like a prisoner when she wasn’t one was how Queen Sansa had treated her and Torrhen their whole lives while growing up in Winterfell. Never allowed to go anywhere without at least twenty bannermen for escorts, and the furthest away from the castle they’d ever gone was when horseback riding through the Wolfswood. She and Torrhen had always dreamed of one day leaving that terrible castle and the selfish Starks they had for relatives. Sure, there were those in both the Night’s Watch and Baratheon army that wanted her dead, but she was still someplace other than the hellhole that was Winterfell. She was surrounded by people other than her horrible relatives, the cruel servants, and judgmental smallfolk residing in the castle and Wintertown. At last she was free from that old life. Shouldn’t she be willing to explore this new environment? More importantly, the father she and Torrhen had always longed for was just beyond this door. The only way to get know him was to go outside.

So why was it so hard to go out now that the courtyard was busy and occupied?

“Is there something fascinating about the door to my solar?”

Lyaella squeaked and spun around. Maester Aemon was settled in a chair near the fireplace, his milky white eyes staring at her as he smiled kindly. Sōnar had made a nice little nest for herself with various blankets in an empty corner, and the sudden break in the silence made her lift her head and snort grumpily.

Gulping nervously, Lyaella darted over to her dragon sister and knelt down to her level, laying her scaly head in her lap. “N-No, no, no, not at all, M-Maester Aemon!” she insisted, cheeks tinting pink with embarrassment. “I… I w-was only… well…” she stopped, suddenly realizing what he asked. “Wait, how did y-you know I was standing by the door? Y-You’re… oh, well… I-I-I mean no disrespect, but—”

He chuckled. “Because I’m blind?” Lyaella whimpered, worried she’d offended him. He chuckled again with a small shake of his head. “No need to fret, little one. I know you meant no offense. I’ve been asked that question many times before. I could hear you breathing over by the entrance. When I lost the use of my eyes, I had to learn how to rely on my other senses to go about my life.”

“To… To s-see without seeing,” she surmised, reminded of the stories Lady Arya had told her and Torrhen about her time training with the Faceless Men assassins. “You adapted to life despite that.”

His smile deepened. “Yes, precisely. But you never answered my question, Lyaella. What were you doing over there by the door? If you wish to go out and look around, go right ahead.”

She bit her lip, fiddling with her necklace with one hand, and petting Sōnar a bit faster with the other. “I… well, I-I-I… I don’t know. Part of me wants t-to stay in here… Get to know you better, Maester Aemon. I’m s-sure you must feel the same way towards me.”

He chuckled. “You’re a very thoughtful young girl, thinking about my feelings. And you’re right, there’s quite a bit that I wish to ask you, Lyaella, as well as teach you.”

She blinked. “T-Teach me?”

“Yes. Aside from my niece across the Narrow Sea and your missing brother, you are the last of a nearly extinct bloodline, my dear. I am the only Targaryen left in Westeros, and I have felt alone for so long. You cannot imagine how I have wished to help my last living family, but I am an old man. It pains me that I’ll most likely never meet Daenerys or Torrhen before my time is up, but I can still pass on my wisdom to you. Instruct you on what it means to even _be_ a Targaryen.”

It pained Lyaella to hear Maester Aemon speak like this. She wished she could divulge her true identity, then he could know the truth about Jon. He hadn’t been alone since he’d first met her future father, and she wouldn’t even exist were it not for him. She knew what he meant by feeling alone. While she and Torrhen always had each other and never were truly alone while growing up, it was always just them, Sōnar, and Shadow. With their parents gone and their only living relatives being the cold-hearted Starks, they were alone all the time. It was the worst thing ever.

She pushed away those thoughts. Dwelling on them would make her sad all over again. “How can y-you do that?”

“I have my ways, don’t worry. But it will take some time to make sure all the books I brought with me from King’s Landing are still in good condition for you to read through, or else I might have to contact the Citadel for replacements to be sent. And there are numerous old letters I’ve saved over the years that I’d love to share with you, but I’ll admit that my brain isn’t quite as sharp as it used to be. I’ve been struggling to remember where I stored them.”

“W-Would you like me to help you find them? It’s… It’s n-no trouble.”

“Thank you, Lyaella, but I’ll have Sam help me look for them. For now, go out and play. Enjoy your childhood. With winter nearly here, it’ll be over far too soon, and death comes with it.”

The hairs rose on the back of her neck. What did that mean? Was he talking about how people generally didn’t survive the harsh Northern Winters in general, or were the stories in the future true about the Long Night? Did the army of the dead really exist? Was the Night King real, like her Stark relatives claimed he was?

She shook her head, thankful that Maester Aemon couldn’t see her. No, impossible. Even if the Night King and the white walkers _did_ exist, the whole War for the Dawn had been dramatically emphasized. The Starks made themselves the heroes and made her parents look like fools and bloodthirsty monsters. Torrhen might be silly enough to believe there were over a hundred thousand dead men marching on Westeros, but she knew better. Nonsense.

“Very well, Maester Aemon. I’ll b-be looking forward to your… your lessons, then.”

He smiled. “And I look forward to teaching you, Lyaella. Now, go play, all right?”

“’Kay. C’mon, Sōnar.”

As her dragon got up and stretched with a low rumble, Lyaella also stood. Waiting until Sōnar was ready before facing the door, she took a deep breath before finally pulling it open.

The courtyard was relatively busy today, with men of the Watch carrying out their duties across Castle Black or training with weaponry. Some sparring, some practicing with training dummies. Aside from a handful of Stormlands soldiers here and there, the Baratheon army appeared mostly absent today. They all had to be hanging about their campgrounds just outside the fortress now that Stannis would be staying for an extended time. Everything seemed normal, though… until Sōnar warbled at her as she shut the door.

Everyone stopped all at once and turned to stare. Lyaella trembled, her face reddening as every set of eyes locked onto her and Sōnar. Their expressions were all so different, too. Some still looked at her with wide-eyed shock. Others glanced frantically between her and her dragon with obvious fear. Quite a few though just straight out glared hatefully at them. Too anxious and shy to do anything, Lyaella simply bent her head and motioned Sōnar to follow her as she descended down the walkway steps. She just had to ignore them. So long as she pretended they weren’t staring at her as though she was a monster, she would be fine. Don’t look over. Don’t think about it. She was fine. She. Was. _Fine._

But… what was she supposed to do out here? Maester Aemon told her to go outside and play, but with everyone hustling and bustling throughout the courtyard, she couldn’t play make-believe the way she wanted to with Sōnar without causing problems. There wasn’t enough snow on the ground to build snow-dragons or snow-wolves like she and Torrhen liked to do when they were little. Perhaps she should run back into Maester Aemon’s workroom for a minute to go get her lyre? At least then she could sit on a barrel and do her own thing without getting in anyone’s way.

Clashing steel a short ways off made her jump and turn. To her surprise, she saw her future father sparring with a dark-haired boy only a few years older than her. The boy was obviously a beginner, as he was struggling to block off Jon’s attacks, but Jon was more than skilled enough to adapt his swordplay so the boy could follow along. Many fellow fresh recruits to the brotherhood watched as they waited their turn to train.

As Jon murmured a tip of some sort to the younger boy, Lyaella’s eyes lit up excitedly. She and Torrhen had always heard stories about what an amazing swordsman their father had been. The greatest swordsman the North had seen in generations, better even than his deceased ‘half-brother,’ Robb Stark. If he was training that boy over there, perhaps he could train her, too? That would be wonderful! Torrhen tried to sneak in training time with her whenever he could, but those times were so sparse and short it was hard for her to improve. Not to mention how bad her footwork was. Maybe the reason she’d arrived in the past and met Jon right away was so he could teach her to fight properly, and this was a great way she could bond with him. She wanted to get to know her future father, and she wanted him to like her, too.

Smiling happily at the thought, she glanced up at her dragon sister. “What do you think, Sōnar? Should I try talking to him?”

Sōnar warbled, air puffing from her nostrils as she gently butted her head against Lyaella’s shoulder.

Lyaella giggled. “All right, I’ll go find a sword. Why don’t you don’t lay down by that empty cart over there? And remember, no roaring or spitting fire if I get hurt, ‘kay? Training’s meant to be rough.”

Sōnar rumbled to show she understood. Patting her white and blue scales one last time, Lyaella set off towards the forge as her dragon headed over to a cart a few yards away. Any soldiers or watchmen lingering nearby bolted away as she lied down. Sōnar ignored them, more interested in watching her little mistress sifting through barrels until she found what looked like a piece of heavily dented, rusty chest plate armor roughly her size, if only slightly big.

A few people watched curiously as she attempted to secure the chest plate around herself, but no one really cared what she was doing until she accidentally knocked over a barrel while trying to tug out one of the extremely heavy swords. Everyone stopped and stared at her, but she avoided looking around at anyone. Should she give them the chance, they might take away the equipment and stop her from training. Tugging one sword out of the pile and leaving it off to the side, she propped the barrel back upright and grunted as she struggled to lift the others back inside.

“You’re gonna kill yourself if you keep messing around with those claymores. What’re you doing?”

Lyaella squeaked and glanced back over her shoulder. Jon was behind her, giving her a quizzical frown.

She smiled, all worries and tension fading away. She carefully put down the heavy sword and turned to face him. “I d-don’t know what… what a claymore is, but I’m looking for a s-sword.”

“A sword? You can’t play with a sword if you’re bored,” he said, reaching over and putting the rest of the scattered swords back in the barrel. “How about you go play with your dragon for awhile instead of playing soldier, okay?”

“I wasn’t… wasn’t t-trying to play,” she insisted, frowning. “I wanted to join in.”

He blinked. “Join… Join in? What?”

“I was hoping you c-could teach me to fight, too.”

There was a lengthy pause. People either stared at her, flabbergasted, or exchanged curious whispers to one another as they snickered. But Jon did neither. He was definitely surprised, but aside from that he only bit his lip, looking extremely uncomfortable. “I’m training the new recruits for Night’s Watch right now. I can’t teach you the basics in everything from the ground up.”

“I already k-know the… the basics,” she replied, waving away the objection. “I know the proper s-stances. I just need to get better at… at f-footwork and swinging the blade.”

He stared at her with furrowed brows for several moments, expression unreadable. Lyaella didn’t know why he seemed so reluctant considering he’d been training that other boy. Had she made him uncomfortable by how she’d been clinging to him the other day? To her relief, he slowly shrugged.

“Fine, but only for a few minutes. Training the Night’s Watch still comes first.”

She beamed. “’Kay. Thank you.”

Sifting through some other barrels off to the side, he found a somewhat smaller sword and a rather large shield and passed it to her. Dumping the claymore she’d found back into its barrel, he motioned her to follow him back to where the other recruits were waiting. She eagerly skipped along and took up her position right across from him, keeping her sword at the ready. The shield was slightly heavy, but nothing she couldn’t handle, and this sword was easier for her to handle than the other one she’d initially grabbed. Heavier than she liked, but still usable.

“You ready?” he asked. She nodded. “All right. Come at me, then.”

She nodded. Gripping her sword and shield tightly, she ran towards him as fast as she could in her dress. She swung her sword, but Jon blocked easily and thrust his blade forward. She shakily raised her shield and was forced back a few steps as he advanced on her. Right when he tried to hit her again, she scrambled to lift up her sword in time, parrying the attack.

Those watching lost their initial skepticism and amusement. She hadn’t been lying about knowing the basics in swordplay. They leaned in closer with interest.

It took everything Lyaella had to keep a firm grip on her sword and shield. The weight of the sword still didn’t bother her that much, but now the shield seemed way too heavy. Not to mention Jon was a real instructor practicing with her instead of Torrhen partially training, partially playing with her when they trained. Whereas Torrhen made their sword fights a friendly competition while occasionally yelling out pointers, Jon was silent as he studied how she fought. It was very different, not to mention exhausting.

She panted, lungs heaving. Barely managing to raise her shield to block another blow, Lyaella noticed Jon wasn’t phased and was preparing a second fast swing. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to raise her shield again fast enough, she let her arm droop and tried sidestepping to the side. Big mistake, as she accidentally stepped on the hem of her dress. Unable to overcome the mis-step fast enough to stay focused, Jon’s attack whacked into her armor. She shrieked and toppled over, her shield dragging her down.

Those watching laughed at her clumsiness. She was very red as she got back up, too embarrassed to look anyone in the eye.

Jon didn’t, though. He stayed focused in his teaching mindset. “You’ll keep tripping like that if you fight in a dress. You need proper britches.”

“But I only h-have this… this dress to wear.”

“Well, if you want to train properly, talk to Gilly later. She might be willing to make you a pair if you ask.”

“O-Okay.”

“Aside from that, you do seem to know the basics, and you’re bad for a beginner. But you forgot one of the most things near the end.”

“What?”

He pointedly tapped the tip of his sword against her shield. “Keep your shield up, or I’ll ring your head like a bell.”

She blinked, then hesitantly nodded.

“Good. Again.”

They clashed their swords again, but Lyaella’s arm still felt tired and heavy thanks to her shield. Not to mention her chest felt slightly tight thanks to the strict training session. It made her quite uncomfortable, pushing herself when her lungs weren’t intaking air as well as they should, but she kept at it. She wasn’t going to let her training session with Jon be spoiled just because her lungs sucked at being lungs. Still, it distracted her from keeping her shield up like he told her. As soon as her arm gave way again, Jon had his blunted blade pointed at her chest.

He frowned, obviously displeased. “Get your shield up!”

“It’s… It’s heavy,” she insisted, inhaling slowly through her nose.

“If it wasn’t heavy, it wouldn’t stop a sword. Keep it up.”

She nodded. She planned to take one last deep breath before trying again, but this time Jon charged forward first, leaving her no choice but to jump right in immediately. With her lungs acting up, the few attacks she made Jon easily deflected, and he launched his own array of strikes against her shield. Lyaella didn’t dare lower her shield this time as he swung his blade, but it was becoming too much for her lungs. She needed a second to rest. Still holding up her shield, she tried stepping backwards to get out of his range, but he easily advanced on her with every sword thrust. Lyaella was soon overwhelmed, and one particularly strong attack knocked her flat on her back, trapping her underneath the heavy shield. She started coughing hard.

Jon lowered his sword. “Not bad, but don’t let yourself get overpowered like that when your foe pushes you.” Ignoring her coughs, he walked up to her and offered his hand to help her up. “Try again. Drive at me like you were before, but keep your shield up.”

But Lyaella didn’t answer or accept his outstretched hand. She was too busy trying to shove the shield off and sit up despite how hard she was coughing.

Jon’s brows furrowed. “Are you okay, Lyaella?”

She weakly nodded. “I… I’m fi—” she cut herself off, strong coughs overtaking her. When they pandered off, she glanced back at him tried to speak again, but her coughs returned the moment she opened her mouth. Tasting phlegm in the back of her throat, she bent her head and covered her mouth with her palm.

Jon blinked, as did those watching. Dropping his own sword and shield, he knelt down and moved the shield off her so he could help her sit up. Even when she did, she didn’t stop coughing right away, nor did she try standing. She just stayed there on the ground and tried breathing slowly and deeply whenever she got a moments reprieve from all her coughing.

It took almost a full minute until her coughs fully subsided. “I… I’m okay. I c-can stand, now,” she insisted, wiping coughed out snot on her thigh before moving her hand to her chest, inhaling slowly and carefully.

Jon silently helped her up, eying her carefully. Lyaella wanted to blush from his scrutiny, but she felt too tight chested and short of breath to care. Luckily, her breathing problems weren’t making her get all wheezy. Thank goodness for that.

That didn’t stop Jon from worrying, though. “Are you sure you’re all right? I can send Olly to fetch Maester Aemon, if you want.” The boy in question nodded.

Lyaella forced a weak chuckle and shook her head. “N-No, I’m… I’m fine, really. I just need t-to… to rest a bit…”

He still looked worried, but he eventually nodded. “All right. Why don’t you go sit over there with your dragon for now? And if you change your mind or get worse, just let someone know. We’ll get Maester Aemon straight away.”

“O… O-Okay…”

Smiling tiredly, she walked slowly over to Sōnar. She had to go slowly. Should her smile die or if another weak cough escaped her, Jon would fetch Maester Aemon. She liked her distant uncle, but she didn’t want anyone to find out about her lung problems, especially not Jon. Her future father was amazing. Kind, brave, strong… he’d be the perfect King of the North once he finally left the Night’s Watch. He didn’t need to worry about her stupid breathing problems. Like she told him in her half-truth before, she did feel better now compared to a few minutes ago. Her attacks were a bit more frequent these days, but she was okay. She didn’t need everyone worrying about her by telling them about her weak lungs. If she did, they’d drag her to Maester Aemon and he brew a disgusting tonic of owl’s blood and watered down Dornish red wine. The day she willingly drank that nauseating potion would be the day she gave up all hope on finding Torrhen and changing history for their future parents.

Her dragon warbled as she approached. Lyaella made sure to greet her with a smile, but she felt too breathy and tired to do any more than that. Plopping down on the back of the cart, she focused on controlling her breathing to a slow, even pace. So long as she could regain control over her breathing, she’d be fine without treatment. She just had to be careful about overexerting herself when it came to training from now on. She didn’t want a repeat of this embarrassing end to her swordplay lesson the next time she asked Jon to train her.

Sōnar could sense she wasn’t feeling well. Hooting to get her attention, she spread her wings and fluttered up onto the wagon with her. The wood creaked from their combined weight, but it still supported them. Lyaella nearly started coughing again as she giggled.

“C-Careful, girl… you’re gonna b-be… too big t-to do that soon…”

Sōnar rumbled, curling up around Lyaella so she’d stay warm. Lyaella smiled, stroking her head. Trust Sōnar to know how to make her feel better. Such good companions dragons were, just like direwolves. Speaking of which, where was her father’s direwolf? Where was Ghost? Were she not feeling so sick right now, she’d poke around for him. She’d have to remember to search for the white wolf later when she felt better and there weren’t as many people around.

Scratching lightly at that one spot under Sōnar’s neck that she loved, she focused back on Jon and the other recruits. With her out of the way, her father was training another fresh recruit to the Watch. Unlike her and that boy Olly, this recruit was obviously an experienced fighter. Jon was sparring seriously with this man rather than training them, and the sheer intensity of the duel had Lyaella’s full and undivided attention. She watched, amazed, as Jon slowly drove back his opponent rather than just deflecting his attacks. People might call him a Northern Fool and a Queenslayer in her timeline, but there was no doubt he really was the greatest swordsman the North had ever seen. Torrhen would definitely follow in his footsteps as a strong fighter so long as he kept up with his training, wherever he was in the current era. Her, though? She’d be lucky to get her swordsmanship to an adequate level. Still, it looked like she had the perfect teacher. Jon could help her become strong like him. She knew he could.

Soon enough, Jon found an opening in his opponents defenses and quickly pointed the tip of his sword at his throat. The loser grumbled, but moved off to the sidelines with only minimal grumbles. Jon murmured some pointers to him for future reference, but he stopped and spun around as Lyaella began clapping. She smiled and waved, but sadly, he didn’t return the sentiment. He just gaped in bewilderment before awkwardly nodding and turning back to the others. She couldn’t help but be puzzled. Why didn’t her future father like her? She was being kind and friendly, and based on the few things she’d seen of him so far, he seemed like a nice person. So what was she doing wrong?

Whatever the reason, she couldn’t find out now, because Stannis Baratheon’s red priestess was approaching the circle of recruits to speak to Jon. He was definitely startled by her sudden appearance, but nodded politely.

“The king wants a word,” she told him.

Jon looked confused as to what Stannis would want with him, but he nodded. Waving over another veteran of the Watch to take over the training session, he headed back over to the forge to put away the training gear he’d been using. Resisting the urge to sigh and disrupt her now steady breathing, Lyaella couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Couldn’t Lady Melisandre come over after one more spar? It was thrilling watching her father go all out. Why did she have to come over now?

The thought had scarcely left her mind when Lady Melisandre suddenly looked her way. Lyaella stiffened. That intense look in the priestess’ eyes unnerved her. to Lyaella’s dismay, the priestess glided straight towards her. Sōnar seemed to sense her distress. Her pupils narrowed into thin slits as she grew tense under her mistress’s touch, ready to protect the little girl at a moment’s notice.

But there was no need for alarm. Lady Melisandre only nodded politely upon her arrival. “Lady Snow,” she said, ruby lips turned up in a subtle smile. “I’m pleased to see you out and about again.”

Lyaella just stiffly nodded. Perhaps if she kept her responses short and to the point, the priestess would leave her be. Lady Kinvara had been one thing. She’d given her and Torrhen no reason not to trust her, but Lady Melisandre was another matter entirely. She had killed so many people in the name of the Lord of Light, including Shireen. If she remembered her history lessons correctly, some of those people had been killed just because they had ‘kings blood’ running through their veins. It was a good thing no one knew the truth about her father’s Targaryen heritage. If Lady Melisandre had known, she suspected he would’ve been offered up as a sacrifice to the fire god to further Stannis’ goals. But now that she was in this timeline… would Lady Melisandre try convincing Stannis to do that to her? Perhaps she should start sleeping with a knife under her pillow.

“I’m glad to see you,” she went on, jolting Lyaella out of her thoughts. “I was hoping we would get the chance to talk.”

Lyaella swallowed. “O-Oh?”

“The king is very curious about you, Lady Snow. You and your dragon,” she explained. “He’s hoping you’ll be willing to speak with him at a later time regarding a few things.”

She trembled, her thoughts scattered. “N-Now? Today?”

“No, not today. There are a few matters that require his attention first. But I hope that we can talk after I escort Lord Snow to him.”

“What…?”

“The Lord has shown me many things in the flames about you, Lyaella Snow. You said you know of another red priestess, so surely you must be aware of what some of these visions I’ve seen mean. Even if you don’t, it’s vital you tell me who this other priestess you’ve met is.”

Lyaella promptly shook her head, eyes as wide as saucers. “N-No. No way.”

“Lady Snow—”

“No… I can’t. S-She told me and Tory not to… not to talk about c-certain things to _anyone._ _”_

“Please, child. I’m sure the priestess you met had good reason for telling you this, but as a follower of R’hollor myself and the one priestess doing everything possible to help the Prince that was Promised, it is imperative you tell me what you know.”

She shook her head, clinging tightly to Sōnar despite how her breathing acted up again. “No. I… I can’t. Now, p-please excuse us.”

With shaky legs, she hopped down from the cart, curtsied politely, and whistled at Sōnar to follow as she walked away. Rumbling warningly at the priestess so she wouldn’t follow, Sōnar leapt down and hurried after her. Lyaella honestly didn’t know where she was going. She just wanted to put as much distance as she could between herself and Lady Melisandre. Whatever reason the Lord of Light had for having her and Torrhen go back in time to change history, she was grateful to him even if she didn’t believe in him. But until she had reason to believe Lady Melisandre was a good person and trustworthy, she wouldn’t tell why her Red God was showing her whatever visions she was seeing in the flames. Better to be wary for now rather than too trusting and get sacrificed to her Lord so Stannis could continue his conquest for the Iron Throne.

“Oh, hello there, Lyaella. I didn’t know you were out and about. How are you?”

Lyaella blinked and turned. Princess Shireen had apparently left her private solar in Castle Black and was standing near Sam and Gilly with her baby. She waved merrily.

Lyaella was still a little confused on why the Baratheon girl was acting so friendly towards her, but she nonetheless waved back, albeit slowly since she still felt tight chested. “Hello…”

Shireen smiled, skipping forward. “I was starting to think you and Sōnar were going to hide away again. I’m glad you’re out. We never got the chance to finish talking the other day.”

Lyaella weakly smiled back. “N-No, we didn’t.”

“I was just asking Lord Sam and Lady Gilly if they could show me where the library is here at Castle Black,” she explained. “You and Sōnar should join us.”

Lyaella’s lips parted slightly, surprised by the invitation. “You… You want us to come with you?”

“Of course. You seem nice, Lyaella. I was hoping we could get to know each other better. And I never thought I’d see a real live dragon! I’ve read so many books about House Targaryen and their dragons, so seeing one for real is amazing! I’d love it if you’d let me spend time with Sōnar while my father’s here.”

Lyaella slowly smiled. Perhaps she’d been wrong to be wary of the Baratheon princess. Shireen seemed very nice. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d met someone close to her age aside from Torrhen who treated her so nicely.

“Well, okay. If y-you’re sure Sōnar and I are… are really welcome.”

Shireen beamed. “Of course you both are. Right, Lord Sam, Lady Gilly?” she asked, glancing back at the adults in question.

Sam and Gilly were silent as they nervously looked at Sōnar. Lyaella couldn’t help but sigh, a small cough escaping her again. She knew that look they were giving her dragon. It was the same fearful look everyone gave her or Sōnar if they didn’t automatically hate them.

“I-It’s okay, Shireen. I know you’re… you’re trying t-to be nice, but I don’t think Lord Sam and L-Lady Gilly want me or Sōnar around,” she murmured. “W-We don’t… We don’t want to cause any problems… We’ll just go. Thank you, anyway…”

Forcing a smile and quick curtsy, Lyaella turned and walked away, keeping one hand on her dragon and one on her chest as her breathing quickened again. She was so stupid. She shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up.

“No, no! Wait, please!”

Frantic footsteps followed. A hand grabbed onto her arm, stopping her. Lyaella turned. Gilly was behind her, smiling apologetically.

“Lady Gilly?”

“I’m… I’m no lady, Lyaella. Just call me Gilly,” she said. “And Sam and I are sorry if we made yeh think that. We didn’t mean too. Yer more than welcome to come with us. Yeh and yer dragon.”

“Are y-you… Are you sure?”

Sam nodded, bouncing Little Sam up and down in his arms. “So long as your dragon doesn’t attempt to hurt any of us or burn down the library, it should be fine, I think.”

“Sōnar won’t do that. I promise.”

“All right. Come this way, then.”

Passing the baby back to his mother, Sam led the way across the snowy courtyard. Shireen eagerly trailed behind him and Gilly at first, but upon noticing how slowly and self-consciously Lyaella was moving with Sōnar, she slowed her pace to walk side-by-side with the silver-haired girl.

“I’m glad you’re joining us, Lyaella. You and Sōnar. This is gonna be fun!”

Lyaella giggled, ignoring the slight cough that happened from doing so. She glanced over at her dragon sister to see what she thought, but then she noticed something else going on in the courtyard across the way. Something she hadn’t even taken note of until now.

“What are those… those soldiers doing over there?” she asked, nodding towards the main gate. Numerous Stormlands soldiers were bringing in timber from outside the fortress, and a few more were piling it all together. “Why are they b-building a pyre?”

Shireen’s smile quickly fell. “My father and Lady Melisandre must be planning a ritual for the Lord of Light tonight.”

A chill ran down Lyaella’s spine. There was going to be a fire ritual tonight? What kind? She wanted to know… but she also didn’t. Sometimes, it was better to _not_ know things.

Biting her lip, Lyaella let the matter drop as she nodded, then motioned Sōnar to hurry as she and Shireen followed Gilly and Sam through a small doorway.

* * *

Torrhen groaned as someone’s elbow whacked him in the jaw. He would’ve snapped at the one responsible, but Shadow yelped in pain as someone else knocked into his furry body. Whoever did it at least yelled out something in the unusual language for the mishap and possibly apologized before disappearing into the vast sea of bodies, but he had no idea what it was they said. Either way, it didn’t matter. Not when he and Shadow were dab smack in the middle of this insane crowd and were poked, prodded, and stepped on every other second by everyone there.

The square was packed with every citizen in Meereen. Young and old, freedmen and former masters alike. People gathered around the main platform where the queen would soon make her announcement, and more citizens were squishing together in the surrounding streets. Torrhen was so small though that people either didn’t see him until after accidentally banging into him or Shadow, or deliberately shoved him aside so as to get further into the crowd faster. It was a miracle that neither he nor Shadow had been seriously injured and he hadn’t lost his money pouch or damaged his lute. But if he and Shadow were to have any chance at all in meeting his mother after this assembly without looking completely black and blue, they needed a better way to navigate through this crowd to get closer to the platform.

“What do you think, bud? See any way for us to squeeze through?”

Shadow whined. Sidling behind his master, he pushed Torrhen off to the sidelines near a decorative low wall. Torrhen didn’t know what Shadow was thinking by sending him this way, but he knew his direwolf never did anything without a reason. If nothing else, they had a better chance catching their breath and planning their next move from there than they did stuck in the middle of this crowd.

He soon realized why Shadow wanted him to go to the wall as they got closer — the crowd was sparser around the wall, at least to the point where people weren’t on top of each other with every other step. And the wall happened to run quite close to the platform where Queen Daenerys would be making her speech.

Grinning ear-to-ear, Torrhen ran his hands through Shadow’s black fur. “Good boy, Shadow. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”

His tail swayed back and forth, delighted. Torrhen grinned, motioning his friend to stay close as he pressed up against the wall. He had to. The crowd wasn’t so dense around it over here, but closer to the stage people were jam packed against it. The only way they could keep going was if they moved flat against the wall itself and stuck together.

They just started sidling along the wall when cheers suddenly erupted from all the freedmen. They screamed out their praises, repeatedly yelling the same foreign word of _‘mhysa’_ while reaching out to something on the platform. Or rather, reaching out to _someone._

A jolt ran through Torrhen. He didn’t know what _‘mhysa’_ meant, but the reaction of the former slaves… Could it be…? He jumped up and down, desperate to see the stage over everyone’s heads. Unfortunately, he was just too small compared to all the towering adults. He scowled. What now? Wracking his brains for a moment, he then remembered the wall.

“Oy, Shadow! Give me a boost, boy!”

Shadowed yipped. Torrhen smiled, patting his head. Setting down his lute for a moment, he got a good grip on the top of the low wall. Shadow nudged him with the top of his head for an extra push, and Torrhen heaved himself up. Swiping his lute, Torrhen carefully found his footing and stood up along the wall edge, carefully maintaining his balance. Once stable, he looked out across the sea of heads to the main platform.

His heart stopped. His lungs crumbled away like the desert sand, breath leaving him completely. Everything else in the world just fell away. Being escorted to the stage by numerous Unsullied guards was a young woman and few others. The soldiers and the others being led to the platform meant nothing, though. The woman in the long white dress was the only one who mattered to Torrhen.

Because even though he was too far away to get a good look at her, he could see she had silver hair. Lyaella’s hair.

“Daenerys Targaryen…” he murmured, filled with wonder. _“Mother…”_

Tears sprang to his eyes. His mother. The mother that almost everyone in the future said was a madwoman. But they were wrong. None of those people had been in this crowd today. None of them saw how the former slaves were so happy and excited to their queen. At the end of the day, none of them had ever truly known Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains.

Smiling happily, he waved Shadow to follow him from the ground as he hurriedly walked along the top of the wall. Daenerys was just a short way off. Today he would finally meet her. He just had to reach that platform before she finished her important speech.

He wasn’t close enough to make out her expression, but he saw her raise a hand for silence. The noise gradually dwindled down per her request. Torrhen himself stopped moving, curious as to what was about to happen.

Pausing only a moment longer, the queen raised her chin and began to speak.

* * *

“Oh! Look at this, Lyaella! This book’s all about Daeron Targaryen!”

“D-Daeron Targaryen? Wasn’t… Wasn’t he known as the Dragonknight?”

“No, Daeron Targaryen later became king. The Dragonknight was Aemon Targaryen.”

“What? N-No, no. You’re mistaken, Shireen. Aemon… Aemon Targaryen is here at the W-Wall right now. He’s the maester of Castle Black.”

“Two different Aemon’s, Lyaella. My history books say that Maester Aemon here at Castle Black was named in honor of Aemon the Dragonknight, and believe it or not, he’s the grandson of Daeron Targaryen!”

“Wow…”

Lyaella hadn’t known what to expect when she agreed to go to the library with Shireen, Sam, and Gilly, but she was now glad she did. Shireen hadn’t been lying when she said she’d read all about House Targaryen. The little doe actually knew more than she did about the history of her House. And now that she’d just clarified her own misunderstanding, Lyaella realized some of the things she did know may not even be fully correct. She’d apparently mixed up her facts from the few rare lessons she and Torrhen had learned from stuffy old Maester Marlon regarding their true birth House, or maybe they’d been intentionally given the wrong facts during their lessons.

Then again, it didn’t matter. If Torrhen were here too, it’d be easy to admit she was having more fun reading about their Targaryen family history now with Shireen than when initially learning these things from Maester Marlon. If only he could be here too, then everything would be perfect.

As they flipped through the books at their small table, Sōnar stayed curled up in a ball in front of the fireplace, rumbling softly as she snoozed away. Gilly sat in a chair across from them with Little Sam on her lap, her eyes flicking worriedly at the dragon every few moments before returning to the two girls.

“Yer… Yer dragon _is_ tame, right?” she asked, hugging her baby protectively. “It won’t hurt us if it gets startled, will it?”

Lyaella shook her head. “Sōnar knows her manners, Lady Gilly, don’t worry. She’s not gonna hurt anyone so long as you don’t try to hurt me, her, my brother and Shadow if they’re found, or those I trust. Unless I tell her to attack, she won’t. I promise.”

Her shoulders fell in relief. “All right, but don’t worry about callin’ me a lady. Just Gilly is fine.”

Lyaella beamed. “Okay then… Just Gilly.”

Gilly laughed. “It’s nice to see yeh smilin’ and laughin’,” she noted. “Yeh were so scared the other day. I was worried.”

Shireen nodded. “I was, too. I was surprised when you suddenly started screaming and running off with Sōnar when everyone entered the courtyard. I wanted to say something, but my mother dragged me off.”

Lyaella shyly smiled, averting her eyes back to the book page and fiddling idly with her dragon pendant. “It’s okay. N-None of that was your fault.”

“Why were you so scared, anyway?” Shireen asked. “I could see you were nervous around me when we were chatting before, but you were terrified when everyone ran out. Why?”

Her smile fell. “W-Well… I didn’t know what to expect from everyone right then. I was worried what m-might happen.”

Gilly nodded, understanding. “I was worried when I came to Castle Black, too. I feared they’d throw me and Little Sam back beyond the Wall. Some in the Night’s Watch still think they should, especially Ser Alliser.”

“Because you’re a Wildling?” Shireen guessed. Gilly nodded.

“Aye. He hates us Free Folk.”

“W-Why do call yourself ‘Free Folk?’” Lyaella asked. “That other Wildling Tormund k-kept saying that, too… Why do you keep saying that?”

Gilly blinked, considering the question briefly. “I… I’m not sure I’m the best person to explain that, Lyaella. Yeh’d get a better answer if yeh ask Mance or Tormund.”

Lyaella frowned, puzzled. “Why?”

She turned away, bouncing Little Sam up and down with sad eyes. “Because even though I was born on the other side of the Wall, I never was free. Not until I met Sam…”

Lyaella and Shireen exchanged puzzled looks. Neither girl knew what they’d done to make Gilly sad, but they understood enough to know they shouldn’t push the matter.

“O-Okay. I… I apologize if I upset you, Gilly,” Lyaella said earnestly.

Gilly nodded appreciatively. “It’s all right. I know yeh didn’t, Lyaella. I wasn’t offended.”

Lyaella smiled. Despite having only met Gilly once in her timeline, Lyaella remembered the former-Wildling woman had been very kind to her and Torrhen, and never discriminated against them for their Targaryen heritage or for having their direwolf and dragon. Even now Gilly was being nice to her even after she unintentionally upset her for reasons unknown. She still treated her kindly and like any other child. That was more than she generally saw from most adults.

Footsteps resounded from behind a shelf. Sam appeared, arms ladled with three heavy books. “Sorry I was gone so long. Took me awhile to find something.”

“That’s all right. It’s no trouble,” Shireen said sweetly. “Were you able to find any more history books on House Targaryen?”

He nodded, passing her the book at the top of the stack. “I’ll look around more thoroughly later, but I did find this.”

“What about those… those other t-two books?” Lyaella piped as Shireen perused through the first few pages. “A-Aren’t those also on House Targaryen?”

Sam jumped, startled. He hurriedly set the books down and shook his head. “N-No, no,” he stammered, eyes darting wildly towards the still sleeping Sōnar in the corner. “These are… are things I found for my own research. Nothing about H-House Targaryen at all…”

“What are t-they about, then?”

“Just… trying to read up on the mysteries and l-legends about the Long Night.”

Lyaella froze. “The… The Long Night?”

He paused, peeking over at the sleeping dragon again before answering. “Yes. I’m… I’m t-trying to learn as much about the the white walkers that I can.”

Lyaella didn’t reply to that. Her mind was whirling back to her thoughts from earlier, when Maester Aemon had ominously mentioned the coming Winter. The second War for the Dawn… How much of those old stories had been true? She tried thinking up someway to play Truth or Half-Truth to ask more, but Sōnar sleepily raised her head and warbled.

“Ah!” Sam jumped, accidentally knocking into the table. “What is it?! W-W-What did I do?!”

Ignoring the slight hurt she felt at his behavior, Lyaella hopped off her chair. “Nothing, y-you’re fine.” She crossed the room, kneeling down to stroke her dragons’ neck. “Sōnar j-just woke up and wanted some attention.”

Sam let out a deep breath of relief, slowly sitting down beside Gilly. “Oh, all right. That’s good…”

Lyaella forced a smile, still giving Sōnar cuddles and pats. Sam seemed nice enough, but between his behavior around Sōnar now and how he’d acted around her and Torrhen the one time they’d ever met him… she didn’t know what to think about him. The Sam she’d known had been the Grand Maester to the puppet-like Brandon Stark. He came to Winterfell with King Bran’s royal procession for the Long Night memorial service with Lady Gilly, Little Sam, and their other son Little Jon — named in memory of her father. His best friend. That being said… the Grand Maester had been an enigma to her and Torrhen.

Upon meeting his sons, she and Torrhen tried playing with them. It was rare they met children who weren’t Northerners and automatically discriminative towards them because of their parents mistakes, so they wanted to get to know them. Lady Gilly hadn’t minded and even encouraged the playtime. Grand Maester Sam however put an end to the fun. Upon seeing the four them playing together with Sōnar and Shadow, he’d gotten all anxious and promptly called his sons away. Hers and Torrhen’s feelings had been hurt, but since he hadn’t been deliberately cruel, they hadn’t cared that much in the long run. They’d endured far worse from others parents, screaming obscenities for daring to play with their sons or daughters.Some parents even went so far as to smack her or Torrhen if they either snapped back or begged to play just a little longer. Since the Grand Maester did neither, they nearly forgot about it… until they saw him later during the annual feast after the memorial service.

The way he acted during that conversation… it was so bizarre. He hadn’t been cruel, but when they asked him to tell them what he remembered about their father, he kept his answers vague and only told them general facts they already knew — he became the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch before being released from his vows, and he had led the mission to Hardhome to save the lives of the Wildlings. He didn’t say anything about who their father was as a person, and he didn’t try to get to know them like Ser Davos or Queen Yara. If anything, he’d been more like Lord Tyrion, overly polite and cordial, but not enough to let down whatever reservations he had towards them. Or rather, whatever reservations he had to Lyaella herself. When addressing Torrhen, Sam looked happy and sad at the same time and would force a smile. Her, though? He’d start to frown before realizing he was, then would turn away until he could force a weak smile at her. At the first chance he had to excuse himself, he left without another word.

But then again, he’d been one of the rare few that knew their father was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and he must’ve known Jon was in love with their mother. Not that he cared. In the end, he chose himself over his friendship with Jon when Jon needed his support. Yes, her mother had killed Sam’s father and brother during her conquest for the throne, but that had been because of the war. It hadn’t been personal. Whatever the reason was that the Sam she had met in the future had acted so oddly, Lyaella didn’t know. All she and Torrhen knew was that the mystery deepened when he and his family left Winterfell the day after the memorial prior to King Bran’s own departure. Everyone claimed that it was because urgent business from the Citadel required his attention, but Lyaella and Torrhen knew that was a lie — he’d obviously left because of them.

Seeing him act far ruder towards her and Sōnar now was hard for her to swallow, even if it was only because he was scared of her dragon. Was he only polite to her and Torrhen in the future because he knew they were Jon’s children? If he hadn’t known that, would he have treated them the same way he was now? Like she and Sōnar were monsters? They weren’t. That he believed they were hurt. But despite that, he seemed nice enough. Unlikely to be one of the people here at Castle Black she _really_ needed to stay on guard around, at the very least. She just didn’t know whether to think of Samwell Tarly as a friend or foe. Harmless and innocent in his role of her parents deaths, or just as bloodstained and guilty as the Starks?

She was pulled out of her thoughts by Shireen suddenly hurrying around the table. “Look at this, Gilly! This chapter’s all about Aegon the Conquerer! See, here? It’s all about how he and his sister-wives conquered Westeros!”

She smiled brightly as she pointed to somewhere on the page, but Gilly suddenly stiffened. Instead of looking down at the page, she half-heartedly smiled at the Baratheon princess, shaking shook her head.

“I’m sure it’s a wonderful tale, Princess Shireen, but yer showin’ this to the wrong person.”

Shireen tilted her head, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Lyaella was equally confused. Planting one last kiss on Sōnar’s snout, she got back up and slowly approached the table again.

Gilly’s eyes wandered over to Sam for a moment before flicking back to Shireen. Finally, she sighed. “I can’t read. Everythin’ in yer book just looks like pictures and shapes to me.”

Shireen blinked, but Lyaella did a double take. “What?”

Gilly only shrugged, her half-hearted smile looking twice as sad. “I’m one of the Free Folk. We don’t have yer books, quills, and ink. Yet can’t learn somethin’ if yeh don’t even know about it.”

“I’ve been trying to go over the basic alphabet with her,” Sam added. “But we’re going slowly. It’s not easy, teaching someone to read.”

Shireen smiled kindly. “I could help, if you’d like. I taught the Onion Knight how to read.”

The former-Wildling and man of the Night’s Watch both blinked. Lyaella furrowed her brows, confused. “Onion Knight?”

“Ser Davos, my father’s hand. He’s only been literate for the past two years, and only because I insisted on teaching him. Before that, he didn’t know how to read or write at all.”

Lyaella was astounded. Ser Davos never told her or Torrhen that. When they were little and learning how to read, he stayed behind one year after the yearly memorial service instead of returning to King’s Landing straight away. She and Torrhen were… four, maybe? Yes, four. It was the year before they’d discovered how rotten their Stark relatives were, so they must’ve been four. Ser Davos stayed to teach them the basics of the alphabet before he was forced to leave a week later. He would’ve stayed longer, but between receiving ravens from King Bran urging him to hurry back and Queen Yara also extending her visit in Winterfell that year to visit them, he knew it was all right to go. Queen Yara assured him she’d make sure they would be able to write and send a ravenscroll to him before she left, and she did. She stayed two weeks longer until they were literate enough to write to Ser Davos before she too had to leave for the Iron Islands. She sent them letters almost every week after so they would keep up with their reading, as did Ser Davos after he oficially returned to King’s Landing.

It had been nice for her and Torrhen, getting letters from their parents most trusted allies. Despite how Queen Yara had been insulted and stopped coming to the North a year later, she kept writing them. Ser Davos only stopped writing them a few months prior to their ninth nameday, claiming he’d have some sort of ‘surprise’ for them when he came to Winterfell with the king. Whatever it had been would forever remain a mystery though, considering he passed away. To hear he’d been taught how to read by a girl close to her age was quite surprising.

“You wish to help me?” Gilly repeated.

Shireen nodded. “If you’re going to be part of the Seven Kingdoms, you should read up on the history of Westeros, but you can’t if you don’t know how. You should learn!”

Lyaella smiled. Shireen really was nice. If her last name was Targaryen, she’d easily think she was a wonderful crown princess. Unlike herself, Lyaella Snow. “I-I-I’ll help, too,” she offered, “if… if you want…”

Gilly blinked, then her smile became genuine. “Thank yeh, both. I’d like that.”

“We’ll start right away, then! Lord Sam, is there any spare parchment around? And an ink pot and—”

Heavy footfalls resounded from the stone stairway entrance. “Princess Shireen? Are you in here?” Two Stormlands soldiers descended from the steps, accompanied by Maester Aemon. When they saw her, they quickly bowed.

Shireen smiled, waving politely. “Good afternoon, sers, Maester Aemon.”

“Your father sent us to find you, princess. We’re to escort you to the courtyard,” said the first soldier.

“Immediately,” added the other. “Come along, now.”

Lyaella glanced over curiously at Shireen, but Shireen only blinked repeatedly at the guards. The little doe looked just as confused as she was.

“For what reason?” she asked. “Does my father wish to speak with me?”

“No, my princess. Your father has summoned you because as his daughter, your presence is required before the ritual can take place.”

Quick as a flash, Shireen’s expression fell. Whatever this so-called ritual was, the Baratheon princess definitely didn’t like it.

“Is something the matter?” asked Sam, glancing between the maester and soldiers.

Maester Aemon turned in the direction of his voice, his usual smile replaced with a distinct frown. “I must ask that you come along as well, Tarly. As we’re both part of the Night’s Watch, we’ve been invited to attend the… _demonstration._ _”_

Sam furrowed his brows. “Demonstration?”

“We’ll be there shortly, Maester Aemon,” said Gilly, readjusting her grip around her son as she stood up. “I just need to put Little Sam down for his nap and—”

“No, no, Gilly. That’s not necessary,” he politely interrupted. “You, your child, and Lyaella can all stay down here for now. This… This doesn’t concern any of you as you’re not part of the Baratheon army or the Night’s Watch.”

Lyaella tilted her head a bit. She could see how Gilly and Sam were looking at one another as he slowly followed Shireen to the stairs. But she was still lost. “What’s going on?”

“Never you mind about that, young one. Please, keep reading. Enjoy yourself.”

Lyaella ignored him. She wasn’t stupid. Whatever the reason was that Maester Aemon wanted her to stay here rather than join everyone out in the courtyard, she could tell it was bad, and that put her on high alert. She was worried. Had someone in the Baratheon army found Torrhen and Shadow and brought them back to Castle Black for Stannis to deal with? Her twin and their direwolf brother weren’t under the protection of the Night’s Watch like she was. Then a worse idea occurred to her head… what if someone had discovered her father’s secret lineage? She needed to see what was happening. Immediately.

“Sōnar, c-come along,” she called, hurrying after the others. “We’re going, now.” Rumbling lightly, the white and blue dragon yawned and trotted along behind her.

The two soldiers were instantly on high alert and hurried to shield Shireen behind them. Sam stumbled over his own feet, watching every step Sōnar made with wide eyes. Maester Aemon forced a sad smile.

“Very well, then. Stay close to me, Lyaella.”

Lyaella nodded, waving Sōnar to stay close as she trailed behind him up the stairs. A moment later, Gilly followed, Little Sam sleeping into her shoulder. Maester Aemon didn’t comment on her coming along, so that meant he’d only been trying to stop her from joining them. Why? What was going on out there?

Outside, the courtyard was bustling with activity. Brothers of the Night’s Watch, the captured Wildling prisoners, all the Stormlands soldiers stationed inside Castle Black… they were all gathered around the large pyre she’d seen the Baratheon officers building earlier. Standing beside the timber pile was the stoic-faced Stannis Baratheon, the mysterious Lady Melisandre, and a rather reluctant-looking Ser Davos. Numerous soldiers near them were holding up torches. _Lit_ torches.

Lyaella froze, mouth going dry.

“Er, Lyaella? Why don’t you and… and S-Sōnar go back downstairs, hm?” Sam urged as her dragon joined them all from the stairwell. “Go on, now.”

“Aye, come with me,” said Gilly, eying the pyre nervously while trying to reach for Lyaella’s hand. “Keep me and Little Sam company.”

Lyaella numbly shook her head as she stepped out of reach, moving closer to her dragon so no one would attempt to drag her away again. They obviously understood what was happening. Truth be told, she had a sinking feeling she knew too, but no one had confirmed it yet. A flash out of the corner of her eye made her turn. The Stormlands soldiers were quietly ushering Shireen away from her and the others.

“Shireen, w-what’s… what g-going on?” she asked, her voice trembling more than usual. “Why is your f-father by that… that pyre? Why is there a pyre a-at all?”

Shireen grimaced, glancing back to Lyaella as the guards led her towards the wooden walkways. Her mother was waiting for her on the upper levels. “For the ritual. My father’s going to sacrifice the Wildling king to the Lord of Light if he doesn’t bend the knee.”

But that didn’t make any of this right. Someone had to stop this. Turning away from Shireen as the soldiers dragged her off, the silver-haired girl whistled for her dragon to follow and darted into the crowd. Sam, Gilly, and Maester Aemon all frantically whispered her to come back, but Lyaella ignored them. She had to find Jon. If he really was as compassionate towards Wildlings as she’d always heard he was, then he’d agree with her. Perhaps with his help, she could make her first step in changing history for the better.

Shoving her way past the startled men of the Watch and confused Stormlands soldiers, she found him in the front row, standing beside Olly and another man of the Watch she’d seen him with before. Edd, if she remembered right.

He wasn’t the only one there to whip around in surprise as she ran up to him. “Lyaella?”

“Jon!” she gasped, panting lightly as Gilly hurried a few steps behind her. Sam desperately looked like he wanted to be there too and shield her and Little Sam from Sōnar, but he was following at a much slower pace. Maester Aemon needed to be escorted to follow her, too. None of that mattered to Lyaella, though. Her attention was focused solely on Jon. “Jon, is it true? Are they really going to—”

She was cut off by the creaking of a door on one of the upper levels. Her head snapped up. Two more Stormlands soldiers were exiting a room, and walking solemnly between them was Mance Rayder, with his wrists bound in chains.

* * *

_“Ao opened aōha rem_ _ȳ_ _ti naejot nyke kesrio syt nyke promised ao freedom se justice. Mēre daor exist mijegon se tolie.”_

Torrhen frowned. His mother was speaking the same strange language everyone in Meereen used. Fuck, he hadn’t expected this. He thought she’d address the crowd in the Common Tongue. What was she saying?

_“Mēre daor exist mijegon se tolie.”_

She turned and nodded to a few guards off to the side of the platform. Bowing politely to their queen, they turned and hurried down the steps, calling out to other Unsullied soldiers further down the road.

Still baffled as to what was happening, the Northern boy tore his gaze away from the queen and glanced around at the freedmen surrounding him. “Does anyone know the Common Tongue? I don’t know what she’s saying.”

Almost everyone started shushing him without daring to look away from their queen, or snapped at him in the same foreign tongue which Torrhen only assumed meant to shut up. He was both annoyed by how they all brushed him off and also at a loss. Why was it so hard to find any sort of decent help in this city?

“Please, I just want someone to translate for me! I don’t know the local language!”

A few more unknown words were thrown his way, but a lone freedman shuffled towards him through the crowd. “You are Westerosi? You only know the Common Tongue?”

Torrhen nodded, relieved. “Aye! Aye, I am!”

“I help you.”

“Thank you! Thank you so much! Please, can you tell me what she just said? I don’t even know what language she’s speaking.”

The former slave smiled proudly. _“Mhysa_ knows Meereen’s mother tongue. She speaks High Valyrian. She say to all of us, ‘you opened your gates to me because I promised you freedom and justice. One cannot exist without the other.’”

Torrhen nodded, but he couldn’t help the way his brows furrowed. “What does she mean by ‘freedom and justice?’”

“She Queen Daenerys, Breaker of Chains. She free us slaves, punish the masters. She is _mhysa._ ”

“I mean about right now. What does she mean by freedom and justice right now? And what does _‘mhysa’_ mean?”

The former slave was about to reply, but sudden cries from further up in the crowd made them both turn. The Unsullied guards and a couple of Second Sons were dragging a young man bound in chains up to the platform, forcing their way through a cluster of Meereenese nobles to do so. The nobles snapped at the queen’s men for knocking into them, but the common people started yelling a new word when they saw the prisoner. Torrhen was too far back to see who the unfortunate soul was until he was dragged up on the stage. He jerked back in disbelief when he finally saw man, nearly tumbling off the wall.

The young man was dressed in the same lightweight gray clothes as the rest of the former slaves. He was a freedman.

 _“Lēkia! Lēkia!”_ cried Torrhen’s interpretor, just as confused and anguished as the other former slaves. “Brother!”

A bead of sweat ran down his temple, but Torrhen didn’t dare set down his lute or cloak to wipe it away. His stomach churned uneasily as he watched the Unsullied and the Second Sons force the man to his knees before the crowd. Something was tickling in the back of his mind. This all seemed… familiar, somehow. But why? He’d never set foot outside the North prior to being sent back in time, and he’d never met his future mother or that freedman prisoner either. So why did all this both alarm him, and still feel like… like deja-vu?

The young man murmured some sort of quiet plead to the queen, but aside from giving him a quiet glance, she ignored him. Instead, she focused back on her audience. _“Iā citizen hen Mīrīn iksin awaiting iderenne se bisa vala ossēntan zir_ _ȳ_ _la.”_

A bad taste gathered in Torrhen’s mouth. Whatever his future mother just said, she’d declared it with such firmness and authority it startled him. Queen Sansa was strict and authoritative, but this regal authority was something else entirely. He frantically glanced back to the wide-eyed freedman.

“W-What did she say?” he begged, his heart pounding. “Please… what did she say?!”

The former slave didn’t answer, nor did he look up at him. He kept his eyes locked solely on the platform.

“Don’t just stand there! Tell me what she said! Please!”

The man still didn’t answer. He just swallowed anxiously, waiting for the queen to continue.

Torrhen didn’t have time for his interpreter’s shock. His gut was screaming something very bad was about to happen. He needed to know what. Swallowing in regret, he nodded to Shadow for help. Shadow promptly nipped the man’s hand.

The freedman yelped. “Argh! Why do that, boy?!”

“I’m sorry! Really, I am! But you weren’t answering me! What did she say?!”

“She… She say man up there murderer.”

“A murderer? What?”

His translator nodded, slowly glancing back to the platform. “He… He kill someone else going to be put on trial.”

“Why?”

“I… I don’t know. She not say why yet, so—”

 _“Hae naenie hen ao gīmigon,”_ they both piped down, listening anxiously, _“iā arlie group brōztagon se Trēsi hen Jazdanī ēza arisen isse se oktion.”_

Torrhen glanced over expectantly. The freedman gulped. “‘As… As many know,’” he translated, “‘new group called Sons of Harpy has risen in city.’”

_“Pōnta attacked se dovaogēdy patrolling se geralbri iā helping lēda rebuild.”_

“‘They attack Unsullied patrolling streets or helping rebuild.’”

_“Se prisoner bona iksin ossēntan iksin suspected hen issare mēre hen zir_ _ȳ_ _. Iā litse iderenne iksin issare planned naejot determine lo īles guilty…”_

“‘Prisoner killed suspected one. Trial was being planned to determine if he was guilty…’”

_“Yn bona kostagon dōrī massigon sir kesrio syt bisa vala gūrotan z_ _ȳ_ _hon ābrar, se bona ābrar iksin daor z_ _ȳ_ _hon naejot gūrogon.”_

The translator trembled, his face paling. “‘B-But… But no happen now because this man took life… a-and life not his to take.’”

_“Se qilōnarion iksis morghon.”_

Cries of horror and desperation rang out all at once from the people. Torrhen gaped, but Shadow growled, moving closer to the wall where he was when several freedmen shoved their way through the mob a little too close to where they were. Torrhen turned to his interpretor for clarification, but the freedman had seemingly forgotten about him.

 _“Daor, mhysa! Kostilus, daor!_ ”

“What’d she say?!” Torrhen yelled, grabbing the man’s shoulder so he wouldn’t ignore him. “What in seven hells is going on?!”

The man shrugged off his hand. “She say, ‘punishment is death.’ _Mhysa_ _’s_ publicly executing him!”

He went on yelling with the rest of the crowd for the queen to show mercy rather than paying attention to Torrhen, but the boy didn’t care. Torrhen just stood there for a few seconds, frozen in horror. No… No, no, no! Now he understood what was happening. Today was the day his mother executed her freedman representative councilor. The name of the councilor escaped him at the moment, but that was irrelevant. No, what was relevant was what was happening… and what he remembered from his history book had happened in Meereen following this execution.

He didn’t know when he started moving. One moment he was standing and staring blankly up at the vague form of the silver-haired woman on the platform, too shocked to move. The next, he was whistling to his wolf to stay close and scrambling as fast as he could along the top of the wall, clutching his lute and cloak tightly.

He had to get to that platform. He had to stop the queen from executing this man. He had to stop his future mother from making a terrible mistake.

* * *

All was silent in the courtyard aside from the crackling flames of the torches and the jingling of chains as Mance shuffled down the walkway steps. No one spoke. Aside Sam leading Maester Aemon to stand behind Lyaella before moving next to Gilly, no one did anything except watch with baited breath. Even the wind was dead.

In the back of her mind, Lyaella was vaguely aware Sōnar was gently nudging her shoulder with her snout, but she was too on edge to acknowledge her dragon. She just pressed closer to Jon, ignoring how he stiffened as he glanced back and forth between her, Sōnar, and the scene unfolding before them.

Finally, the King Beyond the Wall reached the stag king claimant to the Iron Throne.

“Mance Rayder, you’ve been called the King Beyond the Wall. Westeros only has one king,” Stannis declared, his words quite strong. He wasn’t the type to waste time on pleasantries or eloquent words. He just got straight to the point. “I know you and your people value the idea of choice. I offer you one, now. Bend the knee to me. Swear your people will fight in my army, and I promise you mercy. Kneel and live, or refuse and burn.”

There was a long pause. Mance’s eyes flicked over to where that one Wildling with the bushy-bearded red hair was standing with the other prisoners — Tormund, if she remembered right. Jon mentioned him by name in passing the other day. Mance’s eyes then darted over to Jon. She heard Jon inhale slightly at the attention, but that was his only reaction. Lyaella on the other hand trembled, swallowing thickly. This wasn’t really a choice at all. It was so obvious what should be done, and yet… Mance just sighed, letting his eyes wander curiously across the courtyard.

“I lived here for many years…” he said. “I ate my meals in the main lodge. I slept in the bunks in that room over there. I trained with the people here, and they called me their brother… but I never saw them as family. I never saw this place as my home…” he shook his head lightly, then focused back on Stannis with a neutral smile. “I wish yeh good fortune in the wars to come.”

Lyaella wrung her hands. She’d already known Mance was going to refuse Stannis’ deal, but it didn’t make witnessing this any less tense for her than it did for everyone else. Across the courtyard, she could see Tormund was balling his hands into fists while glaring spitefully at Stannis, and the other Wildlings were either sighing sadly or murmuring hateful insults at Stannis under their breath. Jon’s eyes fluttered shut as he let out a quiet, disappointed sigh. Lyaella didn’t know how close her future-father was to the Wildling king, but he’d obviously been the only man in the Night’s Watch hoping Mance would choose to live.

Stannis regarded him coolly for a time, then firmly nodded. “Very well, then. I wish the same for you, wherever you end up next.”

He nodded to the men who had escorted Mance outside. Without a word, his soldiers seized Mance’s arms and dragged him roughly onto the pyre. Mance stumbled as he was forced onto it, his fear cracking through his nonchalant facade for a moment, but he managed to force it back somewhat as they tied his wrists to the stake. Still, his brave mask wasn’t nearly as convincing now as it had been before.

Lady Melisandre waited for them to climb down before stepping forward. “Life is made up of choices,” she declared to the crowd, “and through them, we choose who we wish to be. Man or woman, young or old, lord or peasant, our choices are the same. We choose to walk in the light, or to step into the darkness. We choose to be good, or we choose to be evil. We choose to follow the true god, or the false.”

She glided over to a soldier on the sidelines, taking the offered torch. She swept back in front of the pyre without a word, but Lyaella noticed how Mance’s eyes were fixated on the torch flames. Fear seeped through his face despite how he tried suppressing it.

“Free Folk,” she went on, “there is only one true king. One promised prince destined to become Azor Ahai and save us all through the Long Night. His name is Stannis Baratheon. Here stands your chosen leader, the King of Lies. Behold the fate of those who choose to defy the one true god. Those who choose the darkness.”

Nodding neutrally to the Wildlings, Lady Melisandre glanced over to Stannis one last time. Seeing him nod, she approached the pyre.

Lyaella felt dazed. Shaking her head mutely, she glanced around at everyone else. Tormund and the other Wildling prisoners looked both angry and sad, but they said nothing. Even in the Night’s Watch, people watched with weakly hidden uncertainty regarding King Stannis’ method of choice for execution, but they too did nothing to stop this. She couldn’t understand their mindsets. Yes, she had a dragon, and yes, if someone tried to hurt her, she wouldn’t hesitate ordering Sōnar to burn them alive, but that was the extent of it. Sōnar was her sister and friend, not a weapon. She would never use her dragon to kill people like this. Fire was a wonderful thing, but it was dangerous too, and the way it was being used in this supposed-demonstration to the Wildlings horrified her.

She frantically tugged on Jon’s cloak. “W-Why…? Why must this h-happen?!”

“Shh, quiet!” he hissed, reluctantly turning away from the spectacle to try pushing her closer to Maester Aemon, Sam, and Gilly. “Just — Just stay quiet and don’t—”

“But this is _wrong!_ _”_

She was so loud, a new sort of silence fell over everyone. Lady Melisandre’s torch froze a few inches above the wood, Lyaella’s words halting her. Slowly, all eyes turned to the silver-haired little girl standing beside Jon. Even Stannis looked over, his brows raised curiously.

Jon didn’t seem to know how to react to her little outburst. He swallowed thickly before addressing her. “It’s Stannis’ choice to make,” he said finally. “Mance is his prisoner.”

Lyaella frowned, slightly angry now. “It’s s-still wrong, though. You know it is… And she’s not even c-correct about… about the one promised prince…”

Jon had no reply to that. He just blinked. Thankfully, he was spared from trying to think up a response by Maester Aemon gently tugging her closer to himself and Gilly.

“There, there, it’s all right,” he murmured, patting her back lightly as Gilly passed her son to Sam so she could cradle Lyaella to her chest. “It’s going to be all right.”

Gilly nodded, purposefully turning her body so that Lyaella couldn’t get a clear view of the pyre. “There’s nothin’ we can do,” she whispered somberly. “Just stay right here, okay?”

Lyaella quietly hugged her, trying to will herself not to cry, but a heavy hand clapped down on her shoulder. She numbly looked up. Jon may not be the best at words, but he did offer a soft smile as he squeezed her shoulder. Lyaella weakly smiled back, too upset to do anything further.

With the interruption over, all eyes slowly returned to Stannis and Lady Melisandre. Stannis didn’t give the priestess the go-ahead to light the pyre again, though. No, instead he kept his gaze fixated on Lyaella for a few moments, tilting his head a bit as he studied her. It was a mystery as to what he thought about Lyaella’s interruption, but he had no time to muse on her any further. Sōnar distinctly warbled as she stepped closer to Lyaella from beside Maester Aemon. Jon unintentionally squeezed Lyaella’s shoulder harder in surprise and Gilly tensed, edging closer to Sam, but the dragon paid them no attention. No, Sōnar kept her narrowed eyes locked on Stannis as she snorted into Lyaella’s hair. Lyaella cared little what Sōnar did right then. She appreciated her comfort. More importantly, she was issuing her own warning to everyone else to not hurt her, her human companion. So long as Sōnar only glared and didn’t hurt anyone, that was fine.

Stannis seemed to get the message, though. He turned back to the pyre, but his unnaturally stiff posture betrayed his uneasiness. Regardless, he nodded to Lady Melisandre. This time, it was the priestess who held up the proceedings. She too was focused on Lyaella, but not just her. Her eyes traveled repeatedly from her, to Sōnar, and then to Jon before returning to Lyaella again, the same mysterious smile adorning her face like usual. She soon lowered the torch to the wood pile, but she didn’t look at the pyre as she did. No, she continued staring at Lyaella, Sōnar, and Jon the entire time.

* * *

Reaching the end of the wall, Torren leapt down, nearly dropping his lute and cloak upon landing. Luckily he didn’t, so with a quick whistle to Shadow to stay close, he dashed right into the frenzied throng. The main stage was still some ways off, but he was close enough to it now to be okay with braving the horde.

That’s exactly what this crowd was — a horde. Everyone was still screaming _‘mhysa’_ as they pleaded the queen to show mercy. No one looked twice at Torrhen and his direwolf as they squeezed through every little gap they could find. Slipping between bodies, dodging flailing arms, crawling under legs… anything that let Torrhen get closer to the stage, he did. He still couldn’t make out his future mother’s facial expressions. Until he got up there, there was no way she would be able to hear him over all this noise.

Shoving his way past a freedman, Torrhen caught a rare, clear view of the stage between the sea of bobbing heads. The prisoner murmured another desperate plea to Daenerys. Unlike before, the queen hesitated briefly as she glanced at him. Torrhen kept running, but a small flicker of hope ignited within him. Perhaps his mother changed her mind after all. Maybe he didn’t need to be so worried about her making the same mistake as she did in the original timeline. So long as he reached that stage before she left the city square, everything would be fine.

Sadly, this was just wishful thinking. She took a deep breath to steel her resolve, and broke her gaze with the prisoner. Whatever second thoughts the queen might have had, they were gone now. Straightening her back, she glanced to two men standing further back on the platform — one looked like a Meereenese nobleman in expensive green garments, while the other seemed to be one of the Second Sons sellswords. Without a word, she nodded to the sellsword. Wait… was that just a random sellsword? He squinted his eyes, trying to discern the man’s face as he approached the prisoner while unsheathing a blade. It took him a second, but then his eyes widened. That was Daario Naharis, the same fucker responsible for barring his admittance into the Great Pyramid to meet the queen and even in the original timeline abandoned the city to its fate after his mother died.

Torrhen clenched his teeth, forcing himself to go faster. He’d been so stupid to trust him when they’d met. Had he only used his brain instead of acting like a fool, he would’ve remembered what Lady Kinvara told him and Lyaella about Daario. When he finally introduced himself to the queen, he’d tell her how that asshole prevented their meeting until now. Hell, he’d advise her to immediately dismiss all the Second Sons judging by how they treated people like him throughout the city. If she needed sellswords, she could find others, like the Golden Company. They were at least honorable as far as sellswords go. Food for thought for later, anyway. Right now, he just needed to get up there!

The screams became twice as frantic as Daario held the edge of a curved blade against the freedman’s throat. Not to mention everyone became twice as frenzied jostling against each other. Torrhen yelped as someone’s elbow slammed into his stomach, and Shadow whined as someone else mistakenly stepped on his paw. Rubbing his middle, he tried to turn to check on his direwolf brother, but a wailing woman fell on him when someone crashed into her. Even then, she didn’t stop screaming. She barely looked at him at all as she scrambled up and kept crying for mercy.

This was getting dangerous. The closer he got to the stage, the more panicked and out of control the crowd seemed to get. If he wanted to reach his future mother while still more or less in one piece, he needed to get her attention. He had to be at least in hearing range by now. That was better than nothing.

“Q-Queen Daernerys! Queen Daenerys!” he shouted, jumping up and down while waving his arms. With everyone yelling in High Valyrian, perhaps hearing someone shouting in the Common Tongue might get her attention. “Please, over here! Over here!”

Sadly, she didn’t glance his way. There were so many people, and he was only one voice in a sea of thousands. But he couldn’t give up! He had to keep trying!

“Your grace! Please, don’t do this!” he cried, draping his cloak over his arm to grab onto Shadow. They couldn’t afford to get separated, not in this crowd. “Mercy, _mhysa!_ Mercy!”

Not even yelling out the same unknown word in High Valyrian could catch her attention. What more could he do? What more could he keep screaming to make her notice him?

 _“Mhysa,_ stop! Please! _Mother!_ _”_

Torrhen slapped his hand over his mouth. Curse his idiocy! Man, he was lucky he only said that during a mob as loud and as panicked as this one. There was no way someone could discern what he said from what the person next to him was shouting. What were the odds that _she_ of all people had heard—

Daenerys Targaryen suddenly jolted, startled. Daario raised his strange blade high, but she paid no mind to it. Her gaze snapped directly to him in middle of the crowd—

* * *

Tears streamed down Lyaella’s cheeks as the flames spread across the pyre. She couldn’t help it. The true horror of his predicament finally made Mance drop his mask of indifference. He stared with bulging eyes at the rapidly rising flames, terrified. He wasn’t screaming yet, but Lyaella knew it was only a matter of time before he started. She wanted to scream, and she wasn’t even the one dying right now. She whimpered, clinging tightly to Gilly. The former-Wilding softly stroked her hair and Maester Aemon gently patted her back, both of them offering what little comfort they could.

Unwilling to watch further, Lyaella glanced around at everyone else. Despite comforting her, Gilly looked just as horrified as she was, her eyes wet and teary. Sam was trembling, eyes closed while trying to keep Little Sam’s face tucked into his chest. Baby or not, the little one didn’t need to see this. For once, Maester Aemon was lucky to be blind. He alone was the only person who didn’t have to witness this. But being blind didn’t mean he didn’t have an opinion on what was happening. With sightless eyes, he stared solemnly ahead, but straight ahead for him was not directly at the pyre. It was the bottom of the Wall directly across the courtyard, a clear show of defiance to not dignify this horrible spectacle with any semblance of respect.

Elsewhere throughout the courtyard, others expressed their own opinions.

Some of the Night’s Watch watched with equal horror, others with indifference, and some even grinned as their former brother of the Watch burned. Ser Alliser appeared to be somewhere between both indifferent and pleased by all this, but the bald man next to him — was it Ser Jallas or Ser Janos? — was openly grinning.

The Wildlings were overcomed with grief, a few silently crying. Tormund’s was still glaring, but the way his shoulders shook revealed that he was also mourning.

The Stormlands soldiers were used to this by now, though. They just stood stock still and watched with pressed lips or focused their eyes elsewhere. Ser Davos followed their example. Unlike the smiling Lady Melisandre next to Stannis Baratheon, Ser Davos kept his eyes closed and head bent the entire time. Shireen didn’t watch either. Ignoring her mother Selyse’s fanatical smile, she turned away from the sight, wiping away a few tears. By sheer coincidence, her eyes happened to lock onto Lyaella’s, and the two girls nodded to one another in a mutual horror.

Everyone was either disgusted, pleased, or indifferent on what was happening, yet no one was doing anything to stop it. Lyaella couldn’t understand that. Why was all this necessary? Why couldn’t Stannis have demanded an execution by beheading or hanging? Queen Sansa occasionally ordered those in the past. Granted, she and Torrhen had never attended any due to being so young, but they knew about them. The royal executioner for whenever Lady Arya wasn’t in Winterfell often bragged about all his deaths after one too many ales. But even though her cruel aunt never listened to anyone else’s opinion and never showed mercy to those she deemed traitors or dangerous, she at least chose a more humane method for her executions. Why was it necessary for Mance to be burned alive?

She sniffled, peeking up at Jon. Her future father was clenching his fists. He glared up at the spectacle, enraged by what was happening.

“Jon? Why are t-they doing this?” she whispered. She was crying too hard to speak any louder. “Why… Why m-must they kill him like… like _this?_ _”_

He didn’t answer or look her way, but Lyaella knew he heard her. His face wouldn’t have tightened so much if he hadn’t. His silence didn’t deter her, though. She appreciated Gilly and Maester Aemon’s comfort, but it was _Jon_ _’s_ comfort she really wanted. She wanted him to be the one hugging her right now, whispering that things would be okay and for her to close her eyes. She just had to keep trying.

“Why isn’t anyone… anyone s-stopping this? Everyone must know t-this… this is wrong. Why isn’t anyone doing anything?”

Again, he didn’t respond, but he at least turned to look at her. Offering her a small comforting smile, he gave her shoulder another quick squeeze before glancing over at Sam and Gilly. “Keep an eye on her.”

Sam and Gilly glanced over questioningly, but he slipped past them and stormed off without another word.

Lyaella stared after him. What had she done? She hadn’t meant to make him leave… Was he angry at her for asking that? Aside from herself, the only other person who really took note of his abrupt departure was Olly, but he didn’t try going after him. He just brushed off the moment and focused back on the burning pyre. Unlike Jon, he didn’t seem to have a problem watching Mance grunt in pain as the flames licked away at his legs. No… he had a firm expression on his face. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he looked… satisfied. She didn’t understand that. What was wrong with that boy? How could he actually be _happy_ this was happening?

Shaking her head in disbelief, she tried to break away from Gilly to chase after Jon, but Gilly only hugged her tighter.

“C-Close yer eyes, Lyaella,” she whispered, burying her face into Sam’s shoulder for her own comfort and covering Lyaella’s ears with her palms. Mance had finally given in to the pain and was screaming in agony. “Keep them shut, yeh hear?”

Lyaella wanted more than anything to close her eyes and forget what was happening. She would’ve given anything to turn back the clock and go back to sitting in the library as she had been less than ten minutes ago. But she couldn’t look away. Her eyes were glued to the burning pyre. Even if they weren’t, it wouldn’t have mattered. Gilly hands somewhat muffled Mance’s screams, but not enough to drown them out completely. She could hear them well enough to understand just how much pain the Wildling king had to be in.

She just kept crying into Gilly’s dress as the flames rose higher and higher—

* * *

—just as Daario swung the blade. The steel flashed as blood splattered across the stage as the freedman’s head rolled away from its body.

Silence.

The crowd instantly hushed, former masters and freedmen alike. Neither side had any words, they were so shocked. The queen had no mercy.

Torrhen gasped, his jaw dropping. He stared in wide-eyed horror at the lifeless body of the freedman. He was dead. He’d been alive a second ago, but now he was dead. He was _dead_ _…_ and it was all because his mother hadn’t been willing to grant him mercy.

* * *

—but her tears stopped when an arrow abruptly struck Mance in the heart.

Silence.

Mance stopped screaming, dead within seconds. People jumped, stunned. Who shot that arrow? Who defied the word of the Baratheon king-claimant to show mercy to the King Beyond the Wall?

Lyaella lips parted, equally confused. Pulling away from Gilly, she twisted around to see who was responsible.

Her world turned upside down when she saw Jon standing on an overhead walkway, slowly lowering a bow.

No one said anything, not even Stannis. Jon didn’t seem to have anything to say either. Without a word, he marched back down the stairs and retreated into the sleeping chambers for the men of the Watch, not daring to look back.

As the flames rose higher and higher upon the pyre, Mance slowly burned, but thanks to Jon, he was spared from further agony. A few people tittered anxiously about what he’d done, but Lyaella ignored them. She just stared at the door her father had vanished through. She hadn’t expected he’d be the one to make her desperate plea a reality. Had he done this in the original timeline? Torrhen would know. She wished more than ever that he was here.

A light hoot whistled near her ear. She glanced over her shoulder. Sōnar was gazing at her, blue eyes shining with worry.

Noticing how on edge Sam, Gilly, and by extension everyone in the Night’s Watch aside from Maester Aemon seemed to become by her dragons’ close proximity, Lyaella smiled and urged Sōnar to move a few steps off to the sidelines before daring to do anything.

“Did you see that, girl? Did you see what father did?” she whispered, scratching her favorite spot under her chin. At least on the sidelines, she could whisper whatever she wanted without fear of being overheard. “He… He shot that arrow! He gave the Wildling king a merciful death!”

Sōnar rumbled, fluttering her wings as she pressed up close. Her dragon was listening attentively, absorbing everything she said.

Kissing her snout, Lyaella leaned up against her side and idly stroked her scales. “I… I think it was b-brave of him to do that. He defied the Baratheon king by doing it. I wish… I wish I knew how to be brave like him…”

Snorting at her words, Sōnar rumbled a second time and nuzzled her cheek. Lyaella smiled. Patting her neck one last time, she glanced back at all the hubbub now starting up as people argued on what would be done about Mance Rayder’s charred remains when the fire eventually gave out.

“C’mon, Sōnar, let’s head back over. We can—”

An icy gust of wind suddenly blew through the yard, sending cold, dry air right in her face. Startled, Lyaella threw up her hands, trying to stop her wavy silver hair from flying everywhere. It worked for a few moments, but then a heavy cough tore past her lips, followed by another straight away.

Sōnar hooted , alarmed. It took a lot of acting on Lyaella’s part to force a convincing smile.

“I… I’m okay, g-girl,” she half-wheezed, patting her side. “It’s just the… the wind. Nothing to worry about—” She coughed again, covering her mouth when small bits of phlegm expelled out of her. She pressed down slightly on her torso with her other hand, trying suppress the desire to cough a fourth time.

Her dragon narrowed her icy blue eyes, not believing her. Lyaella didn’t have time to worry about she thought, though. Breathing a bit heavy, she waved Sōnar to follow and slowly crossed the courtyard. She had to hide in Maester Aemon’s chambers at once. She doubted he’d go to his private solar immediately following this execution, so as long as she stayed in there, no one would pick up on her breathing problems. She’d hide her weak lungs forever if necessary, because she was _never_ drinking that disgusting tonic again. End of story.

She was just having a few more breathing problems these days than normal. So long as she monitored her health carefully, she would be fine. Nothing bad was going to her so long as she took it easy for the rest of the day.

Nothing bad whatsoever.

* * *

Everything was surreal for Torrhen. He felt like he had stepped out of his own body and was watching everything happen in someone else’s shoes. In the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware that Daenerys’ eyes whipped away from him the moment the freedman’s head rolled away. She was blinking repeatedly, surprised that the man died without her watching.

What did that matter, though? Whether she’d been watching or not, the man was dead. She’d ordered him to die, and he did. He’d failed to stop his mother from doing this. Had he only been faster, that man might still be alive.

Swallowing thickly, he shook his head and hesitantly stepped forward. He couldn’t let himself dwell over this. He still had to reach that platform. He still had to introduce himself to his future mother.

He only shuffled forward a few paces though when the hissing started.

Torrhen froze. All around him, the crowd was glaring and hissing furiously at the queen. Granted, it was mainly the freedmen doing as such, but even some of the nobles were disgusted by what they’d just seen. Or at least some of the kinder ones were. The crueler masters only joined in because it was the first chance they had to publicly spit on the woman who had taken away their livelihood by ending slavery.

Torrhen gulped. This was bad. This was really, _really_ bad…

A quiet growl escaped Shadow, his hackles rising as he too sensed the shift in the crowd. Up by the edges of the stage, the Unsullied and Second Sons that had been guarding the two sets of stairs that led up to the main area immediately got on the defensive. Neither the soldiers nor the sellswords openly attacked anyone, but the Unsullied moved in fluid unison to point their spears sharply at the crowd as the Second Sons drew their blades or other weapons. Daario Naharis spun his odd curve-shaped blade around as he moved closer to the queen, and a few steps behind her, a white-haired old man wearing lightweight leather armor kept his hand on his sword pommel. Not daring to drop his guard, the old man discretely motioned to a dark-skinned Essosi woman and a Meereenese nobleman who were also on the stage with them to move closer to himself, Daario, and a lone Unsullied carrying his helmet under his arm.

With each passing second, the hissing grew louder, and soon it wasn’t just hissing that could be heard. A few choice words were gradually thrown out in the queen’s direction. He might not know High Valyrian, but Torrhen didn’t need to be a genius to guess what people were probably calling his future mother: bitch, monster, murderer, hypocrite, _madwoman_ _…_

Heart racing, Torrhen started running. He had to get to that stage. He had to reach Daenerys before—

A furious shout rang out as someone hurled a stone at the stage. Half a second passed, then a second stone was thrown. Followed by a third.

Then suddenly, thousands of enraged screams broke out across the square. The nobles and common people were shouting out obscenities and curses to the queen as they fought tooth and nail to break past her security. Other former masters and freedmen instead began fighting with each other. Both sides had always been at odds with the other, and the execution of a freedmen for killing a nobleman was just the trigger both sides needed to finally let loose the full extent of their hatred. The freedman threw whatever they could find at the former masters, and the masters did everything in their power to sink their fists in the slaves faces.

There was no denying it. A full blown riot had broken out. And Torrhen was stuck right in the middle of it.

Terrified, Torrhen did his best to wiggle his way through the mob. He had to get out of this cluster and up to the main stage. Now. Before he and Shadow were pounded to bloody pulps or his mother’s guards escorted her away from all this chaos. If she left before he could reach her, that was it. He’d have no other way of finally making contact with her.

“S-Shadow, come on!” he yelled, leaping over an unfortunate slave woman who’d fallen. “H-Hurry! We’ve gotta—”

A particularly large, robust former master whacked into him as he fought off two former slaves, sending Torrhen crashing to the ground. Were it not for he landed on his side, his lute surely would’ve broke. He was okay aside from a dull ache on his left side, but he barely absorbed what happened before a flash of running feet shot past his eyes. Half a second later, pain throbbed in his chest and right arm.

“Argh!” Torren grunted, eyes growing moist. He couldn’t tell who it was that literally ran over him. They vanished into the crowd without looking back at him.

Sucking in a breath, Torrhen tried to stand, but a random slave man’s foot flew in out of nowhere, kicking him right in the jaw. Torrhen yelped, blood filling his mouth. Seven hells, did he lose a tooth? He sure hoped not.

There was furious growl followed by a blur of black fur. Someone suddenly screamed. Torrhen swayed back and forth as he sat up, dazed by all his injuries. Shadow had apparently had enough of watching him get trampled by the crowd, and had bit the slave man that kicked him. Not harsh enough to cause serious injury, but enough to draw blood. The freedman screamed at the top of his lungs, trying to shake the enraged direwolf off his leg.

“Sha’ow, no!” Torrhen yelled, words muffled from all the blood filling his mouth. He yanked his direwolf brother off the poor freedman. “He ‘ic’e’ me by acci’en’! I’ wasn’ on purpose!”

Shadow calmed at his words, but the former slave was not appeased. Despite his bloody leg, he screamed something ineligible at Torrhen and felt around on the ground for a rock. Torrhen jerked, terrified. Signaling to Shadow to stick close, the boy scrambled to his feet and took off running towards the stage again. The slave man shouted after them, but thanks to the mob, it was impossible for him to follow. Even so, Torrhen didn’t stop running. He was relieved none of his injuries felt all that serious. Now, all he had to do was fight his way past this last frenzied cluster and he’d finally see—

The Unsullied gathered around their queen, keeping their spears out to keep the crowd at bay and their shields raised protectively over Daenerys’ head from those on the upper levels throwing stones from overhead as they escorted her away. The Meereenese noble and the Essosi woman were right on her heels as they too were not fighters, but the old man, the lone Unsullied man that joined them on the platform, and Daario Naharis followed from behind, their weapons drawn just in case. The remaining sellswords brought up the rear, fending off attacks from citizens.

Torrhen hustled, nearly losing Shadow as he sped up.

“Your ‘race!” he called, desperately trying to spit out blood. “Your ‘race! Wai’, please!”

Shoving his way past the last handful of people, he ran after the queen’s escort with all his might, Shadow right on his heels. He had to catch up to them! They were seconds away from disappearing into the safety of a nearby building. If they got inside, they’d lock the doors and wouldn’t come out until reinforcements from the rest of the Unsullied and Second Sons arrived. He was screwed if that happened. Plus, the rest of the mob was right on his tail. They too wanted to catch up to the queen — to chop off her head like she had Daario do to that freedman.

Spitting out the last bits of blood, he frantically wiped any disgusting excess dripping from his mouth, still running. “Queen Daenerys! Wait! Please, wait!”

Success! The silver-haired queen spun away from the random soldier opening the door for her and glanced back in surprise. He was still too far away to really get a good look at her, but he could tell they locked eyes.

He smiled, raising an arm to wave. “Your grace! I’m—”

He was cut off when a slave woman shoved him out of her way, screaming obscenities as she threw a rock the size of his fist at the queen. Her soldiers easily blocked it, but the moment was over. Torrhen’s heart sank as the old man said something in pantomime to his mother, then promptly pulled her through the doorway. He saw her glance back curiously at him, but that was it. The rest of her escort scrambled inside behind her, then swiftly locked the doors.

Torrhen wanted to scream at his apparent bad luck, but Shadow didn’t give him the chance. Clamping his jaws lightly around Torrhen’s arm, he tugged the boy out of the way as a noble almost crashed into him. The boy appreciated his wolf’s help. He could wallow in dismay later. Right now, they had to get out of here before the violence escalated.

“Stick close to me, boy! We gotta go!”

Yipping an affirmative, the direwolf stuck to Torrhen like glue as the boy fought through the crowd to escape. It took them ages, but at last they broke free of the main horde in the square. Even so, they kept running. Some of the angry citizens that had left the plaza like they had were still in foul moods, and quite a few were brawling randomly on the side streets.

Thankful to have not lost Shadow or his things during all the commotion, Torrhen led the way back to the alleyway they’d been sleeping in all this time. Being on the streets for so long, he knew of a good hiding spot in that alley near all the discarded rubble. So long as they got there, they’d be safe and would live long enough to see tomorrow.

Sure enough, they made it there with no problems whatsoever, and upon hiding themselves between a few large, lopsided chunks of stone debris, they hunkered down and kept silent. So long as they heard the rest of the city shouting and brawling far off in the distance, they didn’t dare creep out of their hiding place. They’d stay hidden there all night if they needed to.

Luckily, that wasn’t necessary. The last handful of screams pandered off completely as twilight stretched across the sky. The riot was over, it seemed. Relieved, Torrhen slowly crawled out from between the stones, motioning to Shadow to do the same.

“Well, that was an ordeal. The things we go through, right, boy?”

Shadow panted, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Torrhen smiled, running a hand messily across his furry head.

“Can’t believe we got that close to mother yet couldn’t see her. We were so close! _So close!_ _”_ he groaned. “She saw me, though. I know she saw me. Yet I couldn’t talk to her… Argh! What more do I gotta do?!”

A small whine escaped Shadow, and the wolf purposefully nestled his head under Torrhen’s hand to divert his attention. Torrhen snickered, scratching his buddy behind the ears.

“Sorry, Shadow. I don’t mean to be a pain… I’m just frustrated. Still, I guess we’re lucky to have escaped that mess without you or me getting hurt. Dealing with that sprained ankle sucked. Hate to go through that all over again for me or you.” Shadow wagged happily, licking his cheek repeatedly. His boy chuckled, playfully shoving him off. “Okay, okay! I get it, you’re happy. Enough, though. Keep going like that, and I won’t be able to count our money from today’s earnings. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving!”

Ears perking at the mention of food, Shadow promptly sat down and behaved himself as Torrhen pulled out his small money pouch. Dumping its contents across the gravelly dirt, he tallied up the total. Moments later, he groaned, flopping back against a tall piece of rubble leaning behind him. Curious as to what had upset him, Shadow pawed at his leg.

“We’re eating frugally tonight, Shadow. We can afford a loaf of bread and an apple. Nothing else. And we’ll be sharing it again, too…”

The wolf whined, ears drooping sadly.

Torrhen sighed. “Come on, let’s find a vendor. I’m sure at least one stall’s gotta be open despite that mob.”

Retrieving his coins and collecting his lute, the boy and his direwolf cautiously exited the alleyway, making sure the coast was clear before fully venturing out. Even when assured that no one with lingering anger following the riot was going to jump out of nowhere and attack them, Torrhen kept his free hand close to the pommel of his training sword just in case. Didn’t hurt to be careful, after all.

Even so, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander as he and Shadow continued down the dirt path. The only reason that riot broke out in the first place was because the queen executed that freedman. If he really had killed a former master, that execution was a suitable punishment… but what hadn’t that freedman been put on trial for his crime like she’d been planning to do to the deceased nobleman? If he’d been decreed guilty at a trial, the city probably wouldn’t have reacted the way it had. Why hadn’t she done that?

Dread sinked into his chest as a horrible thought came to mind. Tossing his cloak over the arm carrying his lute, he ran his fingers through his mop of black curls and sighed. “Shadow, do you think it’s even _possible_ for me to change the queen’s fate? I mean… you don’t… you don’t think my aunts and uncle were actually telling me and Lya the truth about her all this time, right? That all along she really was ‘mad?’”

Shadow’s stride slowed somewhat as he glanced up at him, red eyes blinking curiously.

“I mean — well — she just killed that man earlier. Dunno who he was, but he was a freedman. They all respected the queen ‘til now, but she still killed him mercilessly. Do you think…?” he trailed off, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Do you think that… that her doing that is a _sign_ that she really—”

He cut himself off with an abrupt, pained yelp. Shadow growled as he removed his teeth from Torrhen’s hand, having just nipped it a tad harder than he normally would. Biting his lower lip to keep his eyes from watering, Torrhen shifted his lute and cloak to his other hand as he shook away the stinging pain.

“Ow! Damn it, Shadow! That hurt! And shit, you broke the skin this time!”

Shadow gave no indication that he heard him, but he purposefully nosed his boys’ flailing hand and licked the single drop of blood oozing out from his fingers.

While still annoyed by the act, Torrhen could see his direwolf was trying to atone for the deed. That was better than nothing, he supposed. “If you were trying to tell me not to finish that thought, then fine, I won’t. But watch the teeth next time, you hear? Nipping’s fine, but I draw the line at blood. Do that again and I’ll… I’ll bite you back!”

The wolf stopped licking and let his tongue loll off to the side again in a wolfish grin. Torrhen scowled, still partially annoyed, but now also partially amused. It took everything he had to keep his grin from showing — no need for Shadow to think he was willing to overlook this stunt this time.

A large black shadow suddenly passed overhead, yanking Torrhen out of his thoughts. Alarmed, he stopped and looked up, but then he saw what it was and blinked repeatedly.

The sky was quickly darkening due to the late hour, but not even the night sky could stamp out the silhouette of a great black dragon landing upon the roof of the Great Pyramid. Torrhen gasped, awed. That had to be the one dragon that hadn’t been locked up beneath the pyramid following the earthquake. The one everyone in the future claimed his mother rode during her time as a dragonrider, her last surviving dragon living in the ruins of Old Valyria — Drogon.

Torrhen’s mouth fell open slightly as he sucked in a breath. He was speechless. The great Drogon… He was here, on top of the Great Pyramid. Too far away for him to make out any discernible features or to take in how much bigger his mother’s dragon was compared to Sōnar, but still in plain view. He and Lyaella had always wanted to see and meet their mother’s last living dragon. When they talked about running away in the past, they both had lots of ideas on where they would go and what they would do, but one place they always agreed they’d visit together was the ruins of Old Valyria. It’d be a dangerous quest what with the Stone Men haunting the decimated remains, but they both agreed they’d go one day. Plus, they always knew that before going, they wouldn’t go alone unless circumstances demanded it. They would’ve asked one of the only two people they knew to have visited Old Valyria in the past to accompany them. To find their mother’s last living dragon would’ve been a miracle for him and his sister. With any luck, the Drogon in the future would have realized right away who they were and cared for them the same way Sōnar did. Maybe Drogon would have instinctively understood where Sōnar came from, too.

But above all else, the one thing Torrhen knew he and Lyaella had always wanted to do in their fantasy scenario was have Drogon take them to their mother’s body. To find her remains and give her a proper burial… his eyes watered just from thinking about it.

For the longest time, the rest of the world just fell away from him. He stood there in the middle of the path, neck craned back as he stared in wonder at the mighty beast high above. Shadow seemed to understand how significant this moment was to him and stayed silent, only daring to press up against him to show comfort. Torrhen appreciated the gesture, but he was only vaguely aware of it. If only Lyaella and Sōnar were here. Lyaella would’ve been overjoyed, and Sōnar probably would’ve flown straight up to the Great Pyramid to meet Drogon. Why couldn’t they be here now? Why…?

Suddenly, the black dragon let out an audible hoot before spreading its wings and flying away from the Great Pyramid. Torrhen nearly blinked, but he forced himself not to. To blink would mean possibly missing something. A small part of him hoped that his mother’s dragon somehow sensed him down here and was coming to greet him. Maybe even carry him and Shadow up to a pyramid balcony so he could finally meet his future-mother. Unfortunately, that was just wishful thinking. No, Drogon merely squawked as he soared over the city, flying past it in the direction of some mountainous peninsulas far to the west. Torrhen watched with furrowed brows. Where was that dragon going? Why would it disappear for a time only to return for a few moments before leaving again? Very strange…

Still, Drogon’s appearance had restored his hope that things would be better. Impossible things happened in this world every day. His mother had hatched three dragons out of stone eggs like he and Lyaella unintentionally did with Sōnar. They had traveled back in time to correct the mistakes of the past. It all sounded like nonsense to a practical mind, but it was the truth.

Miracles can happen every once in a while, but people can’t just sit around waiting for them to happen. They had to put in the work to _make_ them happen. And that’s exactly what he had to do now. The queen might be making mistakes in how she was governing Meereen, but it wasn’t too late for her to fix them. More importantly, it wasn’t too late to change her fate.

Daenerys Targaryen was _not_ going to die this time around.

She was _not_ going to be known throughout history as ‘The Mad Queen.’

His mother was going to fall in love all over again with his father and him and Lyaella. If she or his father took the Iron Throne, that’d be wonderful, but it didn’t really matter in the end. All that mattered was that their family stayed together. The cruel Starks would not tear them apart or seize power for themselves this time around.

But nothing would change at all until he finally met the queen. It was time he stopped twiddling his thumbs and put in the work necessary to make a miracle happen.

Nodding firmly, Torrhen tore his eyes away from the small, fading dot that was Drogon on the horizon and set off down the road again, a new spring in his step. Shadow hurried after him, glancing up at him curiously as he trotted along.

“Change of plans, bud,” he announced, turning a corner. “We’re gonna have to pick through trash for food tonight.”

Shadow whined, purposefully butting his head against his legs.

Torrhen frowned. “I know, I know. It’s disgusting… Don’t give me that look! I’m not looking forward to it either! I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow and buy a nice piece of meat if I earn enough money, but we can’t buy food tonight. We can’t afford both that _and_ a rope.”

Shadow blinked up at him, intrigued.

Torrhen saw his curious expression and grinned. “Aye, you heard me right. We’ll buy a rope tonight, food tomorrow, and then go frugal for a few days ‘til we get enough to buy a few more ropes plus a sturdy hook. We’ll keep trying to ask permission to see the queen every day, but that’s just for appearances sake. In truth, boy, we’re done hoping we’ll meet mother that way.”

A cold wind suddenly blew through the air, carrying a chill throughout the city. Desert cities were so odd, hot during the day yet freezing cold at night.

His grin became twice as big as he threw his Northern cloak back over his shoulders. “Shadow, we’re gonna have to bend the rules to honor a bit if we’re ever going to see her. We’re gonna have to be honorable thieves — we’re breaking into the Great Pyramid, but we’re not robbing the place or hurting anyone. We’re going to meet the queen.”


	9. The Tale of Two Knights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you're all stunned to see an update so fast. Believe me, I'm stunned by how fast I managed to carve this out. But you thank the motivation behind keeping up with the Camp Nanowrimo schedule for this fast update! Seriously, Nanowrimo is a godsend for helping writers stay focused on writing and not getting easily distracted! Another fast update is here online and available for all you loyal readers to enjoy! :D
> 
> I'd also like to take a moment to give a fast shout out to Longclaw 1-6 for helping me decide whether or not to throw one little aspect into this chapter that I was uncertain about, and for allowing me to borrow the altered lyrics they drafted for a chapter in their story: 'My Father's Son.' It's a RhaegarxLyanna story, and it's truly awesome! If you haven't read it yet, go find it! It's really good! Thank you for letting me borrow a few verses of your song, Longclaw! I appreciate it! :D
> 
> I don't have much else to say this time since it's only been about a week since the last chapter, so I'll skip ahead to the stats for the story. Since the last chapter, there's been 310 kudos, 81 bookmarks, 7551 views, and I was so happy to see that we reached the comment goal on here! 150 comments! Much better than the last chapter's review count on FanFiction.net. They only posted ten reviews, getting nowhere close to the desired goal. You guys here on Ao3 are doing a much better job at leaving reviews, lol! For the next comment goal, how about a slightly easier goal this time? Let's try to reach 165! That's not too bad, I think. Only fifteen comments all together. Let's see if we can do it! 165, everyone!
> 
> Now, onto the chapter! And remember to comment when you're done! And in light of the current pandemic the world is facing with the coronavirus, I hope you're all staying healthy and washing your hands!
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> \- Elphaba818

“Have there been any attacks today?”

“No, your grace. No sign at all of the Sons of the Harpy.”

“What about riots? From the citizens?”

“Still no riots, but Grey Worm reported earlier that some of the Unsullied discovered more graffiti this morning.”

“Whoever did it deliberately painted over the inspiring message left on the walls to rally the people to fight when you took the city.”

“What was painted over it?”

“Well… they left a message of their own.”

“And that was…?”

 _“‘Mhysa_ is a master.’”

“…I see.”

She closed her eyes and slowly breathed through her nose. One moment of anger was all she could allow herself. As a queen, it was her duty to remain calm and collected even when receiving distressing news like this. But it was becoming harder and harder for her to keep her emotions in check. These days, any news about the status of her city was bad news.

Finally getting hold of herself, Dany opened her eyes, nodding neutrally to Missandei and Barristan. “Thank you for informing me. We’ll have to discuss ideas on what’s to be done this evening, when Grey Worm and Daario can attend a meeting.”

“Should I send for Hizdahr as well, your grace?” Missandei asked.

Dany considered for a moment, then nodded with a sigh. “Yes, please do so, Missandei. He’s the chosen representative amongst the former masters, and there’s still a few more details I must discuss with him regarding the financial status of the rebuilding project.”

Smiling kindly to her most trusted handmaiden and the Lord Commander of her Queensguard, Dany rose from the council table and moved to the balcony overlooking the rest of the city. With no trouble happening at the moment, it was hard to believe Meereen was in such a fragile state aside from the damage caused by the earthquake.

But that was the reality, no matter the illusion. Meereen was slowly heading towards the brink of civil war, and unless a solution could be found, many were going to die thanks to the Sons of the Harpies. The worst part was, most of those who would die would die thinking that their deaths would never had happened had she never came to this city and set them free.

“Is something wrong, your grace?” Barristan asked.

Her hands tightened their grasp around the banister railing. “Do you both think I should reopen the court to the citizens?”

Missandei blinked. “Your grace?”

“The Sons of the Harpy haven’t killed anyone recently. They’ve only left more messages on building walls,” she explained. “They’ve done nothing since Mossador’s execution, but I see now that I… made a mistake with how I handled his death. The people are all against me now. That riot that happened right after his execution is proof enough that they are. Things were already bad enough before that failure, and now they’re even worse. I fear the only way to win their trust again is if I show them that I still care about their well-being by seeing them in person.”

“Your grace, I understand where you’re coming from, but it’s too risky,” Missandei politely interjected. “There are potentially hundreds of men we don’t know about who could be part of the Sons of the Harpy, and only one of you.”

“I would have Ser Barristan with me, and Daario and Grey Worm if they’re not patrolling the city. Not to mention my usual Unsullied guard.”

“I know, your grace. But depending on what type of possible assassin they could send, they could easily slip past all of them. I admit I don’t know much about such assassins, but when I served my former master, I heard tales about assassins that could literally blend in with their target’s people.”

“Such is the role of assassins, Missandei.”

Missandei shook her head, her expression grave. “I beg your pardon, your grace, but you don’t understand. These assassins… I think they went by the name of… Skinchangers? No-Faces? I’m not sure, but the point was, they could change their faces easily from their own to that of anyone who they killed. They could literally become that person.”

Dany froze, a wisp of a memory from her ill-fated childhood flashing through her mind. “The Faceless Men.”

“Oh, that’s right! That’s what they were called. You’ve heard of them?”

Dany nodded, slowly leaving the balcony and returning back indoors. “I’ve never personally met one, but yes. They reside in Braavos, I believe.”

“Then surely you understand that if the Sons of the Harpy should consider hiring their services, you’ll be in even greater danger even when inside the safety of the pyramid,” Missandei explained. “I know how much you care about the freedmen and even the nobles, your grace. Anyone’s who met you can see you never meant to upset the people during that execution. But there’s only one of you and countless others plotting against you. It’s better to minimize your exposure.”

Dany frowned and turned away. Missandei had a point. The idea of being potentially hunted by the Faceless Men had among the biggest fears Viserys had when they lived on the streets. It was a miracle that King Robert had apparently never heard of the elite group. He sent countless others their way which they always managed to flee from, but never a skinchanger. They’d been lucky in that regard.

She turned in surprise when Barristan suddenly cleared his throat. He’d been so quiet as Missandei spoke she’d nearly forgotten he was here. “Your grace, I understand Missandei’s point and I agree that there would be danger involved if you reopened your courts. But I think you should still consider doing so.”

“Ser Barristan?”

“Not permanently, my queen. Just for a few days. This past month since Mossador died has been terrible on your reputation. The people need to see that you still care about them. If you double your security in the audience chambers as well as in the reception hall and we check those who enter for potential weapons or poisons, I think we could ensure your safety.”

Missandei still appeared a bit unsure, but Dany smiled. Barristan’s suggestions seemed like good ones.

“Hate to break it to you, old man, but that’s just wishful thinking. The court has to stay closed if we’re to keep our beautiful queen safe.”

They all turned. Daario was in the doorway, casually leaning up against the frame as his dark eyes bored directly at the silver-haired beauty across the room.

Dany’s lips curled up into a subtle smile. That seductive look on Daario’s face setting her aflame like always. “Daario, we didn’t hear you come in.”

“I know, my queen. I know just how to appear when needed. Especially when you need me.”

It took all of Dany’s willpower to keep a straight face at the innuendo. She was still the queen. Any relationship she and Daario had stayed in the bedroom, and it was not acceptable for the sellsword to say such things in the presence of others.

“What was that you said before?” She asked, her tone neutral. “Why do you suppose the court should remain closed for now? Ser Barristan’s suggestion seems more than appropriate.”

Her lover frowned, disappointed by her lack of reciprocation. Still, he straightened to attention. “Three words. That stupid boy.”

Dany blinked. Like it or not, Daario had a point.

The day she executed Mossador, she’s seen a certain dark-haired boy in the crowd, him and that black beast that was always with him. She’d been too far away to really get a good luck at either of them. She doubted she’d have even noticed them if she hadn’t heard someone call her ‘mother’ in the Common Tongue. Everyone else had been calling her _‘mhysa,’_ but someone called her the same in the Westerosi language. She wasn’t entirely certain, but part of her suspected that it had been the boy who had yelled that. She didn’t get the chance to dwell over that though since the riot happened all at once. One moment she’d been standing on the platform, the next she was being escorted by her guards to the closest building for shelter. But right when she was about to enter, that boy and his wolf suddenly appeared again, screaming for her to wait. She was surprised by how they were running to her, but he’d been lost in the crowd as those trying to stone her flung him out of their way. She tried urging her guards to go back and see if he was all right at least, but the her soldiers only priority was keeping her safe, and she’d been dragged into the building before she could utter a single word of protest. She’d felt guilty for what happened to that boy, but there hadn’t been anything she could have done for him right then. Whatever it was he’d wanted with her, it hadn’t mattered since he hadn’t reached her.

She hadn’t expected to hear from him again after that riot… but she’d been mistaken on that count.

In the past month since the execution, that boy had been responsible for so many headaches both herself and her guards had been experiencing. He’d been trying relentlessly to break inside the pyramid, and some of the ways he’d been doing so had baffled both herself and her council. Grappling hooks to climb directly to her balcony, hiding in barrels to be directly carried into the pyramid, trying to sneak in through the _sewers…_ the list went on and on. He never made it very far, her guards would often catch him before he even found the stairs leading up to the pyramid’s upper levels and would throw him and that odd animal he had back out, but he was never deterred. He might not try every night, but he always came back sooner or later, and each time he did, his attempts only became crazier and shocking in how he tried to get in.

What was odd though was what he did whenever he did manage to get in. He never stole anything. He never hurt anyone. He just kept trying to get further up the pyramid levels that the time before. If he wasn’t a thief and wasn’t trying to kill her soldiers, then what did he want?

“Has there been any sign of that boy today?” she finally asked. “He hasn’t tried sneaking in again, has he?”

Daario shook his head, casually smirking. “Some of my men said they saw him wandering the market with that black beast of his, but other than that, no. He hasn’t caused any trouble today.”

She exhaled, relieved. “That’s good. The last thing we need right now is dealing with whichever security breach he manages to find.”

Daario chuckled. “Agreed, my queen. Don’t know what the Sons of the Harpy could be thinking, sending him to do their dirty work. They’re obviously not as smart as they think they are if they’re sending that annoying brat.”

Barristan frowned. “I highly doubt that’s the case, your grace. He hasn’t done anything remotely similar to what the Harpies generally do,” he said. “He’s trying to break in, yes, but that’s all he’s done. He hasn’t hurt anyone or taken anything, and he doesn’t allow that wolf of his to hurt anyone either… at least not unless a guard tries to hurt either of them first.”

Dany nodded, fully agreeing with the aged knight. “I agree with you on that, Ser Barristan, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s continuously trying to force his way into the pyramid. Even if he’s not part of the Harpies, what do you suppose he wants?”

To her surprise, Daario snorted. “Oh, believe me, you don’t have to worry about that,” he insisted. “My men see him out and about all the time, and I even spoke to him once. He’s just a typical street kid. Not to mention a liar.”

“A liar? What makes you say that?”

He waved away the inquiry, his smirk never once leaving his lips. “Trust me, my queen, you’d be insulted if you knew. That brat’s just spewing lies out of the sheer hope it will get him into the life of luxury. Give the word and I’ll tell my men they’re free to rough him up a bit to teach to him back off the next time they catch him sneaking around.”

“Absolutely not, Daario. If this boy is really just looking for a better life, then that means that there are homeless orphans in this city that desperately need my immediate help. You will tell your men that they are not to harm a single hair on any of their heads, and to instead prioritize in making sure they are the ones who receive the most food and provisions each day when they pass out supplies. _Is that clear?”_

Stiffening at the firmness in her tone, Daario quickly nodded. “Yes, my queen.”

Dany nodded once, curtly. She didn’t enjoy admonishing Daario like that, but sometimes it was necessary. The captain of the Second Sons was far too quick to believe violence was always necessary and that his status as his lover made him immune to obeying her orders.

It was then that Missandei stepped forward. “Your grace, I’ll admit I have not seen this boy myself, but I believe Ser Barristan and Daario are both partially correct in some regard.”

All three turned to look at her, blinking repeatedly.

“It’s obvious the boy does not wish to cause harm or steal from you, like Ser Barristan stated,” she went on. “But I spoke with Grey Worm earlier. He says he and the Unsullied often catch glimpses of him and his wolf from afar while patrolling the city. From what they’ve seen, the boy and wolf appear to be starving. They often play an instrument of some sort to try earning money, but they never make much, especially since they only appear to know the Common Tongue. So Daario is most likely correct in assuming he’s an orphan.”

Dany’s heart ached in sympathy. “Perhaps I should have him brought to me the next time he tries breaking in,” she mused. “If he and his pet are truly starving, the least I can do is provide him with a good meal and inquire among the people for a suitable family to take him in…”

“Do that, and you’ll show the Sons of the Harpy you don’t care if people try breaking into your pyramid. Instead of punishing little brats who obviously don’t respect your rule, you pamper them,” Daario scoffed. “Either way, dealing with that boy will have to wait. Hizdahr’s here to see you, my queen.”

“Oh, that’s good news,” Missandei claimed, smiling politely. “I won’t have to summon him now.”

“Has he brought the reports regarding the cities income for the upcoming project?”

“Yeah, he has them. But he insists on giving them to you himself. Says he wishes to discuss the possibility of reopening the fighting pits with you again.”

Dany sighed, her lips pressing together in a tight line. Reopening the fighting pits was a constant debate between herself and Hizdahr. How many times did she have to tell him and councils in Yunkai and Astapor that the practice of human cockfighting would not be tolerated in her new world? “Very well, I’ll go speak with him presently,” she said tiredly.

Even Ser Barristan looked disgruntled by the upcoming conversation. “This way, your grace. I’ll escort you there.”

“No need to worry. I’m more than suited to protect our queen,” Daario grinned, “especially from wise little nobodies like Hizdahr zo Loraq.”

She really needed to give Daario a stern lecture later. His behavior was becoming unacceptable… but she’d let it slide, just this once. After all, he was more than capable of keeping her safe from Hizdahr. More importantly, she knew that Barristan hated thinking about politics. The Lord Commander of her Queensguard had always been so loyal and kind. He deserved a small break from constantly guarding her.

“Go on, Ser Barristan,” she smiled. “Enjoy yourself, and if you see that boy with the wolf, sing a song with him.”

Barristan chuckled as he bowed. “As you wish, your grace, though I must say, it’s been a long time since I last wandered a market with a minstrel. Remind me later to tell you about an old past time of your late brother Rhaegar.”

Dany smiled. “I’m sure it must be quite interesting. I’ll be sure to do so, and I look forward to hearing about it.”

Smiling kindly to the aged knight, Dany took her leave with Missandei and Daario.

* * *

Prince Rhaegar had been called many things by people in his life. The Last Dragon, the Dragon Prince, the Silver Prince, the Prince that was Promised, but for Ser Barristan Selmy, only one title came to mind — his good friend.

Barristan sadly smiled as he wandered between the market stalls. The late prince had been such a good man, one that should have stepped out from the shadows of Aerys to forge new legacies for both House Targaryen and all of Westeros when he finally sat on the Iron Throne. Sadly, that had never happened, and now his younger sister was the very last of the once great royal house — and all because Rhaegar had apparently fell into the same madness as his father by kidnapping and raping Lyanna Stark.

Nodding to a vendor, he continued along to the next stall, shaking his head lightly. It just made no sense. Rhaegar may have been forced into his marriage with Elia Martell purely to keep things stable with Dorne, but he had been fair to her and treated her well. Not to mention he’d loved little Rhaenys and Aegon with all his heart. His marriage hadn’t been a bad one, just more formal than many would have hoped for. Even if it hadn’t been a great marriage, it wouldn’t have mattered. Rhaegar was honorable, a good man. It wasn’t like him to dishonor his wife and children by abducting an innocent girl like the late Lyanna Stark. The stories that were told… they just weren’t him.

He sighed. It didn’t do him any good to dwell on those moments of his late friends’ life. It was far better to think about the good moments in Rhaegar’s life, like when he’d don peasant clothes and sneak out of the Red Keep to play his harp for the common people. He smiled, dwelling back to the last time he and Rhaegar had done this. That had been a good day. Rhaegar sang so well, half the city crowded around to pay him coins. The prince made off with quite a small fortune that day, and all thanks to the generosity of the smallfolk and Gold Cloaks who’d enjoyed his songs. But he didn’t keep a single coin of any of it. No, instead he and Rhaegar had found a pair of runaway siblings from the King’s Landing orphanage who’d been starving for days, and gave all of it to them. Those children had looked up at the mysterious minstrel who’d given them all that gold in wonder, so thankfully speechless that they could only hug him to express their gratitude. Rhaegar had been so touched by how happy they’d been. That had been such a good day.

Even now, just thinking about that last time they’d wandered King’s Landing brought a smile to Barristan’s face. If he closed his eyes and thought back had enough, he could swear he could still remember how Rhaegar sounded when he played his harp. What was that last song he sang before he ended that day, though? He wracked his brains, thinking hard. He knew it, he knew he knew it. It was on the tip of his tongue…

_Search for the glory I knew all along,_

_I face the flames, thy touch on my hand,_

_Alone facing our final dawn,_

_Alone I stand a complete man…_

_‘Dance of Dragons.’_ That was it! Barristan smiled wistfully. The prince always loved this song, one about a pair of lovers who perished during the Doom of Valyria. Normally it was sung by both a man and woman, but the prince had such a wonderful voice no one noticed. He remembered those days so well, he could almost hear Rhaegar’s voice echoing around him now.

_All I have is one last chance,_

_I won’t turn my back on you,_

_Take my hand, they’ll drag me down,_

_If you burn then I will too,_

_And I will meet the flames with you…_

He stopped mid-step, puzzled. Wait… was he actually imagining hearing Rhaegar sing? Had old age finally caught up with him making him hallucinate?

_Our love burns anew,_

_There is nothing left,_

_I can’t face the doom without you,_

_There’s nothing left to lose,_

_Our fight finally ends,_

_I can’t face the doom without you…_

He frowned. No doubt about it. He definitely heard singing. And oddly enough, it sounded similar to how Rhaegar sounded back when he was alive, even if the accompanying instrument was not a harp. What in the world…?

Suddenly, a wolf started howling, perfectly in rhythm with the beat of the tune.

Barristan spun around on his heel, heading at once towards the direction of the music. That wolf’s howl had shed light on who was most likely singing and playing music nearby. Even so, he needed to investigate this further. If it was who he suspected it was, it was high time someone other than Daario, the Second Sons, or the junior-ranking Unsullied saw this boy.

His ears led him to a small gathering of people near the marketplace fountain. Granted, the fountain had been left in shambles following the earthquake and wasn’t high on the list of priorities the queen knew still needed to be rebuilt, but it’s half-shattered ruins still provided a good place to sit. Barristan politely maneuvered his way past the ten or so people huddled around to get a look at the street performer playing for everyone.

As the last woman carefully stepped aside, Barristan froze, his heart stopping.

Sitting on top a large block of rubble was a young boy, no older than ten, at least. With raven black curls and violet eyes, he was dirty from head-to-toe in what appeared to have once been clothing, but were now thoroughly ruined with holes, dust, and dirt. Even so, they were the wrong type of clothing to wear in Essos. Far too warm for the sheer heat of the direct sunlight. The boys’ face was as red as an apple, betraying his heat exhaustion, but the pronounced cheekbones revealed that he was skinny. Too skinny from lack of food. Even so, he kept a forced smile on his face as he strummed the strings of a lute, singing happily so patrons would drop some coins onto the fur cloak spread out on the ground in front of him. Sitting right next to the cloak was a rather large, black wolf. A little larger than a normal wolf, but still a wolf, and it was howling along to the boys song as he played, adding an extra bit of wonder to the street performance. Whenever it stopped howling to catch it’s breath, the wolf would immediately turn it’s attention back to the crowd, it’s sharp red eyes locking at once onto anyone who tried to sneak a coin out of boy’s earnings.

He was a good singer, this boy, and he played his lute very well. So well in fact that it was shocking that more people in the market weren’t stopping to tip him. This song was supposed to be a duet, yet he sang it so well despite being alone. But there were three aspects about this child that immediately came to Barristan’s mind as he watched him. One, he was Westerosi. Unlike everyone else in Meereen who spoke High Valyrian, this boy was singing in the Common Tongue, and with the Westerosi accent. Two, he was from the North. He had a Westerosi accent to his words, but Barristan recognized the underlying burr in his tone, his filthy rags, and by that wolf at his side that he was a Northerner. Northerners hardly ever traveled so far away from their homeland, and even the rare few that dared to cross the sea never left home at such a young age. That a Northern boy was all alone and starving on the streets of Meereen was very unusual. And third, he was only a child, but he bore a striking resemblance to his old friend.

The hair color was wrong, but it was still curly, and he was even singing and playing an instrument on the streets for money, just like Rhaegar did. It was uncanny, how similar they looked…

Swallowing hard, Barristan shook his head a bit as the current song came to a close, distinctly ruffled. He was getting too old. He missed the prince dearly and would forever hate himself for not being able to save him on the Trident, but he obviously needed to come to better terms with Rhaegar’s death. If he was seeing Rhaegar’s ghost in a mere child playing music on the streets, then he surely—

“Thank you, thank you!” said the boy suddenly, hopping down from the fountain’s wreckage to bow to the crowd. He said it the Common Tongue, verifying to the knight that he most likely didn’t know High Valyrian. “I’m glad you all liked it! Please, don’t hesitate to show your appreciation!”

The boy smiled so hard as he hopefully gestured to his cloak, his smile looked painful. Still, hardly anyone pulled out their money pouches to compensate him. Only a handful of freedmen who were too poor themselves to spare more than a coin or two, and one former master tossing him four Gold Dragons and nothing more. Everyone else just clapped appreciatively and started to turn away. Barristan’s heart ached for the child. Poor boy. He was good, very good, but he’d never attract a good audience in Essos. Not when he didn’t speak High Valyrian. The people here would probably pay him more if he sang in their language.

Still, it looked like the boy and that wolf of his hadn’t had a good meal in weeks. If no one else was going to give this boy and his pet the money to ensure their survival, then he would. He would not turn his back on a starving child like this. He reached for his money pouch to start counting out coins as the rest of the crowd slowly dispersed.

The boy sighed as everyone else left, not noticing that the knight was still there. Patting his wolf on the head, the boy blew a few loose curls out of his eyes before bending down to swipe up his earnings.

The handful of coins Barristan had gathered slipped out from between his fingers, falling back into his money pouch. Violet eyes. That boy had violet eyes. _Rhaegar’s eyes…_

His breath hitched, thousands of possibilities flooding his mind all at once. Maybe — just maybe — this boy’s resemblance with the his old friend wasn’t a coincidence at all. If anything… this resemblance might be cause there was a connection between him and Rhaegar. Could that be why this boy had been trying so hard to get into the Great Pyramid? Maybe it wasn’t because he was trying to be a pest or look for a particular item to steal. What if he was only trying to get in to see the queen?

He swallowed thickly. This was too big of a coincidence to merely be a simple coincidence. He needed answers. Straightening his shoulders, Barristan took a deep breath and slowly approached the boy and his wolf.

* * *

Torrhen groaned as he counted out the coins. Seven. Only seven coins. He’d only made seven — _fucking_ — coins!

His fingers tore through his hair as he flopped back down on the debris. Shadow glanced over at him, pawing his leg for attention. Too angry and sad to deal with his direwolf, Torrhen waved him away.

“Go away, Shadow,” he mumbled. “Leave me alone…”

Shadow wouldn’t be dissuaded, though. Growling a bit at the rude dismissal, he forcefully nudged his legs repeatedly with his skull, demanding explanation. Torrhen sighed, reaching over to pet his friend while staring miserably up at the blue sky.

Maybe they were wasting their time at this point, trying to reach his future mother. Maybe they should start thinking about trying to figure out a way to get back to the North to find Lyaella and Sōnar, or at the very least trying to find a way to start messing with the great future the Starks made for themselves. Lady Arya was currently in Essos, if he remembered correctly. She was running around Braavos right now, selfishly choosing to be with the Faceless Men instead of looking for his father, the only family member she still could have gone looking for instead of traipsing across the sea for a man she barely knew. He didn’t wish his assassin aunt dead, but at the very least, he could figure out some way to toy with her if he tried going to Braavos. Stop her from turning into the murderous monster she is in the future. It was a better option at this point than continuously starving on the streets of his future mother’s city.

“We’re not gonna make it, bud. We only got seven coins this time around. Unless a miracle happens for us to somehow make _fifty_ today, we’re gonna have to pick trash again so we can buy that—”

A light _thump_ suddenly resounded, pulling Torrhen out of his thoughts. Blinking several times at the unexpected interruption, he glanced back down at his cloak. He was puzzled to discovered a small drawstring pouch stuffed to the brim resting amongst his cloak folds. Moreover, a pair of leather boots was standing on the opposite side of his cloak from him. Curious, he slowly glanced up. The books were attacked to a pair of legs, which led to a leather-clad body with a strong sword at a person’s hip. And that person was an old man, with snow white hair and a short beard.

The stranger smiled. “You sing very well, boy. I hope that bit I gave is enough payment for your voice.”

Torrhen stared at him for a moment, then slowly glanced back down at the pouch. No… No way. There was no way this old man just gave him—

He swiped up the pouch and shook out a bit of its contents onto his other hand. His eyes boggled as dozens of coins fell out. His jaw dropped at the heart fortune, but then he vehemently dumped the few coins back into the pouch, lunged to his feet, and shoved it back into the strangers hands.

“S-Ser! I… I appreciate your generosity, b-but… but this is too much! I can’t accept this!” he rambled, flustered.

The only man only chuckled. “Don’t worry, child. I have plenty of money. Go ahead, take it.” He dropped the little purse back onto the cloak.

Torrhen’s head whipped back and forth as he grabbed the pouch. He wanted to take that money more than anything — a nice profit like that could keep him and Shadow well fed for days while still allowing him to buy a few more ropes so he could reattempt climbing up to his mother’s balcony again, but this was too much! He wasn’t a spoiled, selfish brat. He couldn’t accept this much from this man.

“I… I can’t, ser! This is too much! Please, take it back! It’s your money!”

He tried to push it back to the old man again, but the swordsman refused, deliberately stepping back out of range. “No, please, I insist,” he said. “I have more than enough money to spare, and I can see that you and that wolf of yours must be starving. You need it more than I do, and besides, any boy with a talent for music and singing like yours deserves to be well paid.”

“Ser, it’s too much! I can’t!”

The old man frowned, then suddenly glanced back over his shoulder at a nearby food vendor before looking back to him with a smile. “How about this then? I pay for a good meal for yourself and your friend? The cost of those is bound to be quite a hefty sum.”

Torrhen tensed. He wasn’t a charity case. Sure, he begged for scraps from the Second Sons and dug through trash for anything edible at night when he didn’t have enough money, but there had to be a limit on how far he could lost his pride when it came to accepting help from strangers. Was it really okay, letting this man pay for him and Shadow to be well fed for one meal?

Shadow seemed to think it was. He leapt to his feet, tail whipping back and forth repeatedly as he trotted up to the stranger, nuzzling up against his legs. The old man laughed, fingers disappearing into his thick black pelt. “Seems like your friend approves of this plan, so I’ll take that as a yes from you, too. Wait right here.”

Smiling kindly, he turned and approached the stall. Torrhen just stared after him, his head reeling. What was happening? All this time he’d been begging people for help and the no one had bothered to help him except Ser Jorah. He’d just started thinking that no one was going to help him at all, but here was someone providing him and Shadow with a decent meal. Had he not actually woken up this morning? Was he still dreaming from last night?

The old man returned a few minutes later, carrying two helpings of roasted duck. Shadow immediately started salivating, his eyes fixated on the steaming food. “Here you both are,” he said, setting down one on the ground before passing the other to the stunned boy. Shadow promptly attacked his, scarfing it down like the wild animal he really was. “Freshly made, still hot.”

Torrhen’s mouth watered. The old man was right, he could feel the warmth of the roasted fowl beneath his fingers. And the scent wafting from it… it’d been so long since he’d eaten anything other than bread or occasional fruit when he and Shadow made a little extra money. To resist was impossible. Nodding gratefully to the stranger, he took the meat and took a large bite. He nearly moaned in delight when he tasted it. Perfect. It was perfect.

“’ank ‘ou,” he said, gobbling it down as he spoke. “’t’s ‘ood!”

“No trouble at all. Any decent knight would’ve done the same.”

The old man took a seat on a large piece of the fountain wreckage next to him. He was silent for a time as Torrhen and Shadow enjoyed their meals, studying them carefully. Torrhen knew that his interest in them was odd, but he was too hungry to care. The odds of him and Shadow getting a good meal like this again anytime soon were slim to none. He wasn’t going to worry about anything until he finally finished this delicious duck.

Thankfully, the knight was kind enough to wait for him to finish eating before speaking again. “You’re a Northerner, yes? From Westeros?” he asked.

Torrhen blinked. He supposed that the stranger figuring out he was from Westeros wasn’t all that surprising, considering others had figured out the same when they recognized his western accent and lack of knowledge on the High Valyrian language. But only Ser Jorah had realized he was a Northerner. “Aye, that’s right,” he said slowly. “Who are you? Are you a Westerosi, too?”

“Indeed, I am. I come from the Stormlands,” he said. “Though I must say, finding a young boy like you all by yourself so far from home is quite a rarity.”

The boy frowned, pointedly looking away. “I’m not alone. I’ve got a Shadow with me. And Lyaella and Sōnar, wherever they are.”

“Lyaella? Sōnar?”

“My twin sister and honorary sister. They’re out there, somewhere. I know I’ll find them.”

He nodded, considering briefly. “Ah, family. Nothing more important in this world than family. So, you have sisters?”

His eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Why do you care? Why are you taking such interest in me?” Torrhen asked. “Who are you, anyway?”

The old man blinked, then promptly chuckled, amused. “True, we never actually introduced ourselves, did we?” He got to his feet and politely bowed. “I am Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Queensguard to the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen Daenerys.”

Torrhen froze, eyes going impossibly wide. Barristan Selmy? The legendary knight? This… This was his mother’s loyal knight, the one who had traveled across the Narrow Sea to search for her and pledge himself to her cause? Was his luck really starting to turn around? Had one of his mother’s most faithful supporters actually found him?

But wait… Barristan Selmy had supposedly died during a riot here in Meereen. He might have always preferred reading up on his father’s adventures in the Night’s Watch compared to reading about his mother’s conquests, but the tales about Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan had always interested him in his mothers’ chronicles. Ser Barristan died during a riot, he knew that for a fact. The question was… did the knight in the original timeline die during the riot when the queen executed that freedman? That part he couldn’t quite remember. Was this _really_ the real Ser Barristan, or just someone trying to scam him? Worse… could it be a trick of the Sons of the Harpy? Had that terrorist group finally taken at interest in him?

Swallowing thickly, he carefully stood up, squeezing his lute tightly in one hand and collecting his cloak off the ground with the other. “How… How do I know that’s true?” he asked, signaling Shadow to stay close. “I mean — well, I mean no disrespect, ser, but… well—”

The knight frowned, saddened but understanding. “You want proof, is that it?”

Torrhen nodded. “I appreciate the food you gave us, but with the Sons of the Harpy around, you can see why I’m on edge.”

He nodded. “That makes sense, especially from you.”

“What?”

“Your eyes, son. They’re violet, a very unusual color,” he commented with a smile. “The queen has the same eyes. All those descended from a certain House in Westeros were known to have those eyes. You might have dark hair instead of silver, but those eyes… the late Prince Rhaegar had those eyes too, as did all other Targaryen that came before him.”

Torrhen stared at him, trying to resist the urge to blink. Again, only Ser Jorah had realized he wasn’t lying about being descended from House Targaryen when he took a good look at his eyes. Still, anyone who had studied history could have known that. “I… I’m not a Targaryen,” he claimed. “But I have been trying to meet the queen.”

“Yes, I know. You’re the young boy who’s been trying relentlessly to break into the Great Pyramid this past month, aren’t you?”

“Aye, that’s right.”

He chortled. “You’ve been causing the queen a great number of headaches with your schemes. She has to tightened her security multiple times with each of your attempts.”

Torrhen knew the man meant it as a joke, but he couldn’t help but scowl, annoyed. “I wouldn’t be doing it at all if she hadn’t closed the court to the common people!” he snapped. “And even if she hadn’t, it wouldn’t matter! That captain won’t let me in to see her!”

The old man tilted his head, brows furrowing. “Captain?” he repeated.

“Aye! You can go tell that fucker that if he’d just let me talk to the queen, I’d stop being a pain! I just need to see her! Not him! Not the queens’ soldiers! _Her!_ I need to see Queen Daenerys herself! I’ve come here all the way from—” he cut himself off, swallowing thickly.

“From where? Westeros?”

Torrhen stiffly nodded, kicking away a small pebble near his feet. That was the best way to phrase it, anyway. Much better than stating he was from the future, like he almost said originally. When he finally found the right words, he looked up again firmly “I’ve come a long way to meet Daenerys Targaryen, and I’m not gonna stop trying to get into that pyramid until I see her. You say you’re the Lord Commander of her queensguard? Then prove it — please take me to meet her. I… I _have_ to meet her!”

Barristan stared at him for a long moment, considering his request. “Why?” he finally asked. “Why is it so important for you to meet the queen? If you’re not a real Targaryen, then who are you?”

Torrhen smiled. “I’m Torrhen. Torrhen S—”

A crash suddenly echoed from further down the street, cutting off his words. Torrhen and the alleged-Ser Barristan whipped around, alarmed. Screams were echoing through the air towards the central area of the market, and they were steadily growing louder.

“What’s that?” Torrhen asked. “What happened?”

The old man tensed, his hand slowly moving to the pommel of his sword. “Not sure,” he murmured, glancing around. Torrhen was on edge as the knight focused on the distant screams. What was going on? Did an accident happen?

Suddenly, freedmen and nobles were running in terror from further down the road to their side of the market, knocking others and goods for sale aside in their panic. A moment later, it became apparent as to why. A handful of men in gold masks came charging in right behind them, sharp blades in hand as they killed anyone who they could get their hands on, poor and rich alike.

Within seconds, the old man had his sword drawn. “Take that wolf and hide. _Now,”_ he ordered, shoving him towards an abandoned market stall without looking at him. “Don’t come out until I return.”

Torrhen jolted, alarmed. “What?! No! I—”

“This is _not_ a discussion! _Hide!_ I’ll be back as soon as I help end this attack!” He took off down the street without another word.

Torrhen stared after him for a moment, stunned, then promptly tugged back on his cloak, gripped his lute, and yanked out his training sword. “Come on, Shadow!”

His direwolf made no sounds to give an affirmative, but Shadow shot off quick as lightning as soon as Torrhen himself started running. Truth be told, Torrhen knew he was acting stupid, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. If the Sons of the Harpy were attacking his mother’s soldiers, than he wanted to help stop them, and if that old man really was the legendary Barristan Selmy, then he couldn’t afford to let him out of his sight. Without Ser Jorah around, Ser Barristan was probably the next most loyal, most honorable man currently part of the queen’s council in this current era of history. If that stranger was telling him the truth, than he was the best chance he had at finally meeting Daenerys Targaryen.

All across the streets, freedmen and nobles were running in terror into any open building, not caring if they mixed together with the other class before promptly barricading the doors behind them. It was their best chance at survival, what with how many men in fancy clothes and solid gold harpy masks were slaughtering anyone they managed to grab hold of on the streets. Slave or former master didn’t matter. They stabbed, gutted, and slit the throats of everyone they came across. There was so much blood flowing down the dirt pathways, one would think the city was floating on a sea of red. This wasn’t even an attack. It was a slaughter.

Torrhen’s heart pounded like crazy as he raced after the old knight down the bloodstained roads. With every dead body he passed, he felt sicker and sicker to his stomach, and he paled so much he was as white as his namesake. How many people lived in Meereen, exactly? How many were dying right now? How many people had to die all together before the Sons of the Harpy were satisfied with butchering these innocent people? It wasn’t even the freedman alone who were dying. They were killing the nobles, too. He couldn’t wrap his head around why they’d want to kill the former masters. His mother wasn’t popular with the Meereenese nobles. It made no sense to kill them, not when they too were suffering without the income of the slave trade. It was horrible, but it did prove one thing: the Sons of the Harpy didn’t care if someone was a freedman or a former master. If someone stood in their path, they were considered an enemy and received no mercy. For all he knew, perhaps they wanted to take control of the whole city eventually and enslave anyone — rich or poor — who survived the civil war between themselves and the queen.

Thankfully, Torrhen didn’t have to abandon his lute to fully use his sword in self-defense while running after the stranger. Most of the attackers had already fled the scenes of all the bloody slaughters, and the one or two that lingered behind after the messes to search in the shadows for anyone hiding were easily cut down by the old knight. Torrhen was astounded by how well the old man fought. He was old, but he wielded his blade like it was just another extension of his arm, not phased at all by the one or two men that attempted to stop him. If anything, the multiple random attacks didn’t tire the knight at all. As soon as they died, he quickly checked the over scene to see if there were indeed any survivors amongst the victims or someone hiding to stay safe, then would promptly take off running again. Torrhen could only assume the old man was following his ears to where a great deal of yelling and clashing steel could be heard some ways off — some of Unsullied or Second Sons must have intercepted one such Harpy group and were fighting them. He only hoped he and the old man found them in time. Provided of course that none of the queen’s men were that cocky shit Daario Naharis or that fucker Grey Worm, he wanted to help them.

The stranger soon dashed down a narrow alleyway, one which Torrhen hadn’t yet explored while wandering the city. Hiding somewhat around the bend to the entryway, he peeked inside. The ground was covered in so many bodies, Unsullied and the Sons of the Harpy, and stained with so much blood it looked more black than red. There were at least nine of the Harpies still alive. Eight were circling around a lone Unsullied on the ground who had lost his helmet in the scuffle — the only one still standing after the attack — but all eight gold masks snapped around when they heard their ninth comrade who’d been checking to see if any of the fallen soldiers were still breathing gasp and gurgle as a sword pierced his chest. The knight didn’t even look at the fallen Harpy as he yanked out his blade. He kept his eyes locked on the eight remaining attackers now focused on him.

The Unsullied on the ground was suffering from major blood loss and was overtired, so he was struggling just to rise, but the Sons of the Harpy ignored him. He was dead already in their eyes. As soon as they cut down this old man, they’d come back to him. Nodding to one another, they charged.

But the knight was not someone to be trifled with. Torrhen’s jaw fell open as he easily parried every attack made, killing three men without even breaking a sweat. He fought so well, not even phased by the fact that he was outnumbered. He was the most skilled swordsman he’d ever met — not including Ser Lady Brienne and Lady Arya since they were women, no disrespect intended. He’d been wrong to think he’d been trying to deceive him. He was really was Barristan Selmy. No doubt about it.

As a few other men fell, the remaining four started attacking him from all angles, managing to stab him twice. The old man gasped in pain, falling to his knees. He’d been wearing only tanned leather without armor due to the blistering heat of the Essos sun, and he could feel the full weight behind the attacks. It took everything the knight had just to keep fending off their blows.

Enraged, Torrhen leapt out from around the bend, dropping his lute on top of a pile of bodies to better grip his sword. “Oy! Fuckers!”

The sudden shout made everyone there jolt and whirl around. Ser Barristan’s eyes widened in alarm.

“You picked the wrong day to try killing the queen’s soldiers! Come on, Shadow!”

Letting out a fiery yell, the boy charged forward, his wolf a snarling blur of black fur as he leapt into the fray behind him.

One Harpy screamed as Shadow pounced on top of him, tearing out his throat with his sharp fangs. A second attacker promptly tried attacking the direwolf, but a third one left Ser Barristan to the final Harpy as he focused on Torrhen. Easily fending off the boys’ obvious sword slash, he chuckled darkly behind his gold mask.

“You picked the wrong fight to interfere in, street rat,” the man said as Torrhen ducked to avoid a fast thrust from his blade. “You should have hidden away with that beast of yours and not come out until your mother came to find you.”

Red hot rage shot through Torrhen faster than he could blink. “Don’t you dare talk to me about my mother!” he spat, feinting a weak strike to the right long enough to divert the man’s attention from kicking him hard in the shin. “Someone like you doesn’t deserve to speak about her!”

The Harpy groaned, more surprised than actually hurt, but Torrhen grinned. Not bad, not bad at all. He just needed to get at least one good attack on this guy and he’d be—

“Little shit! I was planning to spare you, but now you’ve done it!”

Torrhen’s grin vanished as the man’s attacks got twice as fast and powerful. He’d been holding back on him, it seemed. The boy tried to keep up with the speed of his opponents attacks, but in less than a second, he was shoved to the ground, his head smacking up against the boot of a fallen Unsullied.

“Should have minded your own business, boy,” the Son of the Harpy spat, advancing on him. “Maybe then you wouldn’t be about to die, now.”

Torrhen gulped, shakily rising. Now that he knew he wasn’t nearly as skilled at swordplay as he thought he was, he didn’t know what to do. He just tightened his grip on the pommel of his training sword. “I’m not dying,” he said finally. “Not today.”

He threw all his strength into every attack. He knew the Harpy was lazily fending off his blows, but it didn’t matter. He just needed to bide him time. Ser Barristan was definitely winded from his injuries, but he was easily blocking the attacks from the one Harpy still focused on him. Shadow had a large gash on his side where the last Harpy had sliced him, but he was pressing on despite his wound. The attacker focusing on the wolf now was trying to edge away from the direwolf rather than attacking it, realizing it stood no chance against the creature. Torrhen just had to stall long enough for either his wolf or Ser Barristan to come help him. So long as he could hold out for another minute or so, he’d be fine.

Glancing around, he saw the body of another Harpy lying on top of the slain form of an Unsullied warrior a few feet behind his attacker. It took all of Torrhen’s willpower not to smile. If he could just get his opponent to back up and trip over those two, he’d catch him off guard well enough to bat his sword away. It was an idea, anyway. The only one he had.

He swung his blade harder, faster. The Harpy chuckled at him as he easily stepped back out of range, amused. “Give up, boy,” he sneered, the tip of his blade managing to scratch Torrhen’s arm. The boy yelped as pain shot through him, his long-sleeved blue shirt soon staining red. “You think you’re brave? You’re no hero. You’re just a worthless little street rat. Born as nothing, and will die as nothing.”

Torrhen gritted his teeth. This arrogant fucker really enjoyed pushing his buttons. “I’m not worthless, and the only person dying today will be _you!”_

He thrust his blade forward. The Harpy backed away from the meager attack, but it didn’t matter. He’d finally backed up enough to stumble back in alarm over the two bodies. Torrhen grinned as he saw his opponent try to regain his balance. Finally, a real opening! He charged forward, aiming to slash down hard at the Harpy’s leg. Always go for the legs if possible when fighting. If your opponent couldn’t stand, you stood a better chance at victory.

He raised his blade—

* * *

_“N-No! Leave… Leave us alone!”_

_It ignored her, advancing onward with narrowed, icy blue eyes._

_“You can’t! Y-You can’t have her!” Lyaella screamed, her tears freezing at once on her cheeks. She tightened her grip on her sword, the blade visibly shaking from how hard she was trembling. “I… I w-won’t let you!”_

_It still pressed closer, reaching out with its bony white fingers to shove her aside._

* * *

—only to nearly drop it in alarm.

Torrhen gasped, stumbling back a few paces as his eyes became as wide as saucers. What the fuck?! Lyaella! Was his sister in danger?! Where was she?! Who was trying to take who?! What was going—?!

He was literally knocked back to earth a second time by a foot suddenly kicking him in the chest. Hard. He yelped, his training sword flying out of his hand as his head struck a loose piece of rubble on the ground.

Pain exploded through his whole skull. He screamed, everything around him suddenly become a loud roar. Fucking seven hells and seven heavens, _his head!_ It didn’t just hurt, it throbbed with his pounding heartbeat. Wait why did he feel something hot and wet running down his temple? And why was there now two men in gold masks advancing on him in perfect unison?

“Stupid brat!” they yelled simultaneously, marching forward.

Torrhen was swiftly becoming lightheaded and dazed, so aside from groaning in agony as they both fisted through his black curls to yank him onto his knees, he barely reacted. His stomach was churning unpleasantly. Was he going to be sick? He sure hoped not. He needed to find his sword. He had to stop these last few Harpies.

He tried to glance around in search of his training sword, but the simple action only made him even more disoriented and nauseous. He squeezed his eyes shut as the whole alley started to spin around.

That’s when the felt the cold edge of steel brush up against his throat.

“Any last words, you little shit?!”

Torrhen tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt so heavy, he couldn’t find the energy. So this was it. He’d never see his sister or their dragon again, nor would he ever meet either of his parents. What a great help he’d been in this timeline for changing the future for the better, dying without ever doing anything important. He could only hope his wolf would be okay. If these fucking shits dared to kill Shadow, he’d come back as a ghost and haunt them ‘til the end of their days. And by the mercy of any gods that were watching all this and not doing anything to stop it, they’d better protect Lyaella and Sōnar. If anything bad happened to his little sister or their dragon, he’d never forgive himself.

Sucking in a deep breath, he forced his lips to move. “Mother… of Dragons… Breaker of Chains…” he whispered.

There was an annoyed growl, and the blade pressed down a tad firmer—

There was a whistle of wind, followed sharply by a scream of pain. The steel at his throat was gone, and the hand holding him up gruffly by his hair released him quite abruptly. Torrhen was so disoriented he didn’t know which way was up or down, but he felt himself flop down on something quite hard, and he could only assume it was the ground. There was a flurry of words he couldn’t even begin to understand since it sounded like High Valyrian, and then another scream cried out, followed by silence.

A moment later, rough yet gentle hands suddenly pressed down firmly somewhere on his head and shaking his shoulder.

“Boy…?” a tired voice whispered, it’s roughly spoken Common Tongue sounding heavily accented and in a great deal of pain. “Boy…? Can you hear me…?”

Who was this? Another Harpy? It didn’t sound like Ser Barristan, at least. It took everything he had just to open his eyes. Leaning over him were at least three different Unsullied men with the exact same face, and they all had the same injuries and identically worried, yet dazed looks on their faces as they tried applied pressure to somewhere on his head.

Despite how weak and exhausted the trio looked, they exhaled in unison when they saw him gaze up at them. “Good, you awake,” they murmured, relieved. “Tell me, how many fingers I hold up?” They all raised their hands, holding up a vast multitude of moving fingers.

Torrhen’s stomached churned even harder as he tried to count them. Why were they all holding up fingers? Shouldn’t only one of them be doing that? At the very least, they should all stop spinning back and forth so he could easily count. Was it six fingers…? No, wait… nine. He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could say anything, the icky feelings churning about inside rose up all at once.

He threw up violently all over them.

“He must have a concussion. Keep pressure on that graze on his head, and try to keep him talking. We need to keep him awake.”

“Yes, Ser Barristan,” said the Unsullied together, nodding to someone out of Torrhen’s line of sight.

“I’ll go look for help. I’ll be right back.”

Rapidly retreating footsteps wandered out of range. Torrhen’s heart dropped down into his flip flopping stomach, making him feel twice as sick. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs at the knight to stop. He couldn’t leave! If he left, he’d have no way of finally meeting his future mother! Stay, please! Still the only thing that escaped his lips was more vomit. He would have apologized to the soldiers if he could have, but they didn’t seem to mind. Unlike the first time, they were able to maneuver themselves out of the way in time to avoid being splattered.

There was a soft whimper, followed by gentle panting and something cold and wet brushing up against his arm. Moments later, the outlines of several black furry creatures with bright red eyes appeared in his vision. Shadow was here. Along with two other Shadows. Were there always three Shadows? He wasn’t entirely sure. He could have sworn that there was only ever Shadow and—

“Your wolf brave, like you,” said the three Unsullied suddenly. “Save me and Ser Barristan.”

The three of them were starting to slip out of focus. Torrhen didn’t mind though. Sleep sounded good. Relaxing. “Had… Had to…” he murmured. “Ser is… Ser is queen’s knight.”

“You approve of queen?”

He nodded, too tired and sleepy to keep his eyes from drooping. “She… She good… I… I want to…”

“Stay awake, boy! Open your eyes! What you want with queen?”

“I… I want to meet her…”

And then the world slipped away into comforting darkness.

* * *

“We shouldn’t be out in the open.”

“I had to get out of that wheelhouse.”

“Volantis is a large, busy city. The likelihood of you being recognized—”

“We’re across the Narrow Sea. A whole ocean stands between us and Cersei.”

“Cersei may still be in Westeros, but the price she’s put on you will have spread far and wide by now. A lordship and three sacks of gold for your head would tempt many men.”

Derisive snort. “She should’ve offered her cunt. Best part of her for the best part of me.”

There was a lengthy sigh. “Really, I think we should-”

“I was losing my mind in that box. I can’t remember the last person’s face I saw ‘til now that wasn’t yours.”

“It’s a perfectly good face, you know. Not scarred, at least.”

“Scar or not, take a look at me. What am I to everyone else? One more drunken dwarf!”

Ignoring the eye roll Varys gave him, the imp of Casterly Rock took a lengthy swig from his personal flask as they wandered through the busy market. Tyrion Lannister had spent so long with only the Spider for company upon fleeing King’s Landing he’d begun wondering if he’d lost the edge to superior wit. It was good to know he could still make the plump eunuch sigh. Even if he couldn’t, it wouldn’t have mattered. He was not returning to that small, stuffy wheelhouse. Not until he’d passed out drunk in a brothel with at least two scantily clad women praising him. Any whore would do… just as long as they weren’t mysterious dark-haired beauties hailing from Lorath.

That being said though, he couldn’t deny that the regular areas in Volantis had its charms, even if the city itself seemed overcrowded. Every step he took he had to carefuuly look around to make sure no one else might accidentally knock into him due to how packed the streets were. And it was so noisy. Were Varys not walking right next to him, the dwarf was certain he wouldn’t be able to discern his words from the chatter of the rest of the crowd.

“Ugh! What do you mean, the shipment won’t arrive on time?! I’ve been trading with this merchant for over three years now, and aside from weather-related issues, they’ve always sent their goods on time before!”

“True, but your contact is from Meereen. He’s struggling to re-amass his wealthy since the Dragon Queen ended slavery.”

Perhaps he’d been wrong, assuming that he and Varys wouldn’t be able to hear each other if they got split up on the streets. The conversation between a furious merchant and an irritated nobleman they were passing was so loud, anyone with ears could listen in.

“Fucking bitch, that so-called Dragon Queen… Just wants a city to call her own! Ending slavery is just her excuse for doing it!”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if you’re right. She’s completely disrupted the entire economy here in Essos! Don’t even know how many nobles in Slaver’s Bay have been writing to my father and his friends lately.”

“What for? To ask for loans?”

“Yes, but not to restart their businesses. They want to invest.”

Their words trailed off as the dwarf and eunuch turned a corner. Tyrion took another swig from his flask and sighed. “This queen you speak so highly of certainly seems like she’s doing a fine job,” he sarcastically quipped. “Does a good deed by banning the slave trade, yet doesn’t implement a plan to compensate for the loss of income loss. She must be a very smart woman…”

“Every ruler makes mistakes at some point in their rule regarding gold. It’s the ones who are willing to listen to the advice of their councilors regarding how to fix that mistake that reveal if they’re self-interested or not.”

“You think it was just an honest mistake?”

“Hard to say at this point, my friend. We shall both have to discuss this with her in further detail when we finally meet her.”

Tyrion couldn’t stop himself from chuckling. “You speak as though she’ll really include us in her inner circle. Did you forget that you betrayed her father or that I’m from the very family that helped slaughter hers?”

Varys shook his head, a slight smile spreading across his lips. “No, that’s still a real possibility, but if she’s as smart as my little birds have claimed she is, she’ll at least be willing to hear us out. It would be in her best interest to do so, especially since I intend to divulge a few certain songs my birds have sung to me recently.”

The dwarf glanced up, curious. “Oh? Like what?”

“Well for one, a few have overheard whispers here in Volantis regarding the nobles. As we just heard, the former masters in Meereen aren’t all that happy with the Mother of Dragons. They’ve been pleading with their friends here and in the other slave cities for help.”

“Help how?” Varys discretely flicked his eyes off to the side as they passed a dingy pub. Numerous sellswords were lounging about right outside the entrance, laughing boisterously as they chugged down ale. Tyrion raised a skeptical brow. “Sellswords? They want money for sellswords? That’s their grand plan?” he asked dryly. “They’re going to overthrow a woman with two large armies and three dragons by hiring sellswords?”

“I’m only stating what my little birds have heard,” Varys evenly answered. “They don’t know if the masters will actually hire them or not. They only know that the idea was discussed.”

Tyrion was silent for a moment as he considered this. “What do you think, then? Will they do it?”

Varys frowned, brows furrowing together. “I am unsure as of now. I’m still trying to rebuild my spy network on both sides of the sea because of your sister. Were it my old informants, they’d know how to get details. My new little birds are still learning the ropes to spy work. Even if they learn fast, they’re still stretched too thin to fully verify if everything they’ve heard is true. The only thing I’m completely certain about regarding Meereen is that an earthquake recently happened there.”

“An earthquake?”

Varys nodded. “Yes, a few weeks ago. The city was hit hard. They’re still rebuilding.”

Tyrion was rather muddled. Earthquakes were relatively natural disasters. Unlike the usual plots and schemes that people played with one another, they weren’t something that could be outwitted or even prevented. When they happened, people simply had to ride out the tragedy and pick themselves up afterward. That being said though, there were certain areas of the world that experienced earthquakes more frequently than others, like how the Stormlands endured more storms than anywhere else in Westeros. If his general knowledge about Essos was correct, then out of all the general areas throughout the eastern continent where earthquakes sometimes happened, Slavers Bay wasn’t one of them. If anything, the Free Cities of Braavos or Pentos were more likely to suffer from natural disasters. It was rather odd that Meereen would be struck hard by a powerful earthquake…

He was still musing to himself as he and Varys stumbled across a small gathering in the middle of the market square. Numerous citizens were circled around a young woman standing atop a small stack of wooden crates. She was dressed finely in a beautiful red dress with a matching crimson hooded cloak. A red priestess, one hailing from somewhere here in Essos judging by her features and High Valyrian dialect. Curious, Tyrion halted himself a short ways off from the crowd to listen in, bringing the Spider to a stop as well.

 _“Āeksio, cast aōha ōños bē īlva!”_ chanted the priestess. The crowd repeated the chant, watching her with rapt attention. _“Syt bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys.”_

The dwarf took another long swig from his flask. It had been a quite some time since he’d had any reason to converse in High Valyrian, so his knowledge on the language was a little rusty. Still, if his mental translation was correct, he was fairly certain the woman had something along the lines of ‘Lord cast your light upon us. For the night is dark and full of terrors.’ Another overzealous fanatic, most likely. Such a far cry from the drunken oaf that was Thoros of Myr, the only red priest he’d ever met.

Varys rolled his eyes at the Red God worshiper. “Let’s move on,” he suggested. “We shouldn’t stay in one place for too long.”

Tyrion knew he had a point, but he still waved off the suggestion and shuffled over to as set of rickety wooden steps nearby, climbing them until he sat down a little ways higher than the priestess herself. Varys sighed as he silently followed, giving him a cross look as he did so. Tyrion ignored him. If in the unlikely event that Daenerys Targaryen didn’t have him executed where he stood upon their meeting, he would be spending quite a bit of time in Essos. He might as well reacquaint himself with the native tongue on this continent. And besides, it was far better listening to the exotic language from a beautiful woman in the fresh air than from a certain plump eunuch inside that stuffy wheelhouse.

Gulping down some more wine, he did his best to mentally translate the priestess’ High Valyrian as she addressed her listeners.

_“R’hollor knows hen aōha sufferings. Ēza ryptan aōha cries se prayers. Ziry listens naejot se slaves hae ziry listens naejot dāryssy. Ziry listens naejot se dōron vali isse pōja loneliness se mundari, assuring zirȳ bona they’ve daor issare forgotten!”_

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. “You’re fluent in High Valyrian, yes?” he murmured to Varys. The Spider nodded. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but did she just say her god has listened to all men’s suffering? And that he hasn’t forgotten the lonely Stone Men’s prayers?”

“Close enough.”

He shook his head with a frown. “And just what do the Stone Men driven mad from greyscale pray for, I wonder?” he quipped. “To be cured? Good luck with that…”

Varys shushed him. Good thing, too, because the priestess went on.

_“The Āeksiot Ōño ēza ryptan aōha prayers, se issa finally answering zirȳ. Ēza jittan ao zȳhon champions naejot triumph toliot se Rōvēgrie Tolie’s sȳndror! Mēre hen zȳhon saviors ao already gīmigon. Sigligon hen perzys zaldrīzī hen dōron dorēdrugon, se mele comet signified zirȳla part isse se legends! Se Dāria Zaldrīzoti, Daenērys Jelmāzmo!”_

“‘The Lord of Light has heard your prayers, and he’s finally answering them.’” Tyrion mocked, chuckling lightly. “‘He has sent you his champions to triumph over the Great Other’s darkness! One of his saviors you already know.’”

Varys shushed him again. “Keep it down! Do you want to start a riot?”

“Oh, come now, Varys. Even you must admit this sounds like nonsense. I thought you hated religion?”

Varys pressed his lips together and sighed. “‘Reborn from the fire to wake dragons from stone,’” he murmured, “‘the red comet signified her part in the legends…’”

“‘The Dragon Queen, Daenerys Stormborn!’ We’re going to meet the Lord’s savior! Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Varys?” said the imp, sarcasm dripping from his words. “I’ve always wanted to meet the savior.”

Varys made a face at him. Tyrion grinned. Leaving that carriage was the best decision he’d made in months. Fresh air and new faces were just what he needed. He would lose his reputation of being the cleverest Lannister if he lost his cynicism. Smirking to himself, he glanced back over to the priestess, only to freeze when he saw her eyes locked on him.

“The Lord’s long-awaited prophecy is at last on the horizon,” she declared, now speaking in the Common Tongue. Tyrion blinked at the language shift, especially since her gaze had yet to waver. “The Long Night is coming. Only the Prince and Princess that were Promised can bring the dawn and reshape the world.”

Tyrion couldn’t help but feel on edge. The way she was staring at him right now… Did she recognize him? Perhaps Varys was right about moving on. Carefully adjusting the hood of his cloak to better hide his face, he rose to his feet. “Let’s find a brothel,” he murmured.

The eunuch was more than happy to oblige. Keeping their heads bowed to avoid detection, they casually strolled away from the gathering and towards a large building where many prostitutes were lounging about outside, beckoning men to their establishment with seductive eyes. As the duo passed the temptresses and filed through the open archway, Tyrion resisted the urge to glance back at the crowd. He could still feel the priestess’ eyes watching him. What did she want with him. More importantly, what did she mean by that last thing she said about a prince and a princess? He didn’t know much about at all about that prophecy she mentioned, but he’d heard that another red priestess in Stannis’ inner circle had proclaimed him the so-called ‘Prince that was Promised.’ That being said though, there was no record from the little birds Varys had on Dragonstone that the Red Woman had ever mentioned that there was both a prince and a princess. Had Lady Melisandre been wrong, or was this priestess wrong? Or was it all just fanatical ramblings? He felt silly for seriously thinking about all this, but… if in the unlikely chance it wasn’t just nonsense and this new priestess was correct about this bizarre prophecy, then she was probably wrong about Daenerys being one of the saviors. The Mother of Dragons was completely alone in the world. With her parents and brothers dead, she was the last of House Targaryen, and he knew from past small council meetings back in King’s Landing that the son she was supposed to have with that Dothraki Khal died in childbirth. She had done for herself since then if the rumors about her were true, but those two facts made the idea of her being the princess impossible. Nonsense, all that talk. Pure nonsense.

Passing a lone middle-aged knight drinking alone in a dark corner, Tyrion waved Varys over to an empty table nearby. “See? We blend in easily.” Varys didn’t comment. Tyrion could tell he was still on edge even when a silver-haired young woman dressed in a provocative low-cut blue dress approached them with a tray, passing them cups of ale. The dwarf kept his eyes on her as she approached the lonely swordsman. “Interesting hair color,” he murmured.

Varys nodded, sipping his drink. They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the Dragon Queen-lookalike as she refilled the swordsman’s cup. She attempted to whisper in his ear while running her hands temptingly across his chest, but the man only averted his eyes and politely waved her away. No matter though, considering another table with several drunk sellswords hooted and cheered for her to entertain them. Pleased to have attracted a large group, the woman kept an alluring smile on her face as she glided over, each step she made looking both regal and seductive at the same time.

Tyrion raised a brow. “It appears you’re not the only one supporting the Mother of Dragons.”

“Someone that inspires priests and whores is worth taking seriously.”

“She’s still never stepped foot in Westeros since being forced to flee as babe. She knows nothing about what the politics of the Seven Kingdoms are actually like. Does that sound like someone who would be a good queen?”

“That’s why if she is smart, she would welcome advisers such as us into her service. You and I know how to play the game better than most, my friend.”

Tyrion snorted and took a hearty swing of his ale. He highly doubted that was true. If it were, then the past two years would never have happened. He’d still be living happily in the Red Keep prior to his forced marriage to young Sansa Stark. Enduring his father’s silent hatred and his sister’s spiteful remarks, and every night visited by his beloved Shae…

His fingers tightened around his cup, heart clenching painfully. How long had she been sleeping with his father? After he pushed her away to get her to leave King’s Landing? Before? It was so painfully obvious to him now that she never truly loved him, not when she was willing to call all her Lannister partners ‘her lion.’ He needed a nice, good fuck to get her out of his mind. A good tumbling was the only way he’d get over her. Luckily, he was in the best place for men to be to get over their heartache.

Letting his eyes make a quick glance around the room, he soon spotted a rather striking brunette draped in a fine red dress with a plunging neckline and with slits along the skirt that ran all the way up to her waist. Perfect. Draining what was left of his drink, he slid off his cushioned seat.

He barely took more than two steps away from their table before Varys caught his wrist. “Where are you going?”

“To do what any traveler mad with lust does in this establishment,” he replied, keeping one eye locked on the dark-haired beauty the whole time.

“Just this once, can you look and not touch?” the Spider sighed. “We should stay together right now, and I have one more rumor about the Dragon Queen to tell you about. My little birds don’t know much about it, as everything’s been disrupted due to the earthquake, but they did whisper a rather intriguing song. A song about a young street boy who’s been trying relentlessly to get an audience with Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Tell me later back in the wheelhouse. Right now, the only whispering I want to hear is from someone with hair.”

Varys frowned. “This is important. No one’s paying us much attention right now, and the sooner you hear this, the better. If anything, it’ll make you understand why we should leave immediately and get back on the road with all haste.”

“I’m sure that stopping for a few hours won’t— drat!” Tyrion groaned. The woman was now straddling the waist of a young lusty nobleman, drawn over like a fly to honey by the prospect of gold. Tyrion scowled. “Well, there goes my chance at fun on this journey…”

“All the more reason why we should move on. I’m not going to sit here with you as you wait for her to become available again.”

Tyrion sighed. “Fine, we’ll leave. Just as soon as I go for a piss. By all means, come along if you wish to watch.”

That finally made his bald companion stop pestering him. Had he realized that the only way to get a moment’s solitude was mentioning his need to whip out his cock, he’d have done it the moment they first entered.

Weaving his way past all the scantily clad ladies and lusting men, he exited the building and turned down the alley right outside. Going all the way down to the open end, he pulled out his flask and drained what was left in it as he relieved himself. He should have brought a flask with him when he went to the top of the Wall all those years ago. Pissing off the edge of the tallest man-made structure in the world while gulping down a nice Arbor Gold would have made the experience all that more fun. One of the last stupidly fun things he’d done before the War of the Five Kings broke out.

He had just started putting himself away when he heard footsteps approach from behind. He couldn’t suppress his groan. “Did you really decide watch? There’s no need to worry, I’ll be— oh.” He had glanced back over his shoulder to give who he assumed had been Varys a rather disgruntled scowl, but to his surprise, it wasn’t Varys standing behind him. It was the the lonely blond knight who’d been drinking alone at the table next to theirs. “Sorry,” he mumbled, turning back around with a slight head shake. “Thought you were someone else.”

The man said nothing in return.

“The show’s already over,” he quipped, wiping his hands clean on his cloak. “I’m sure the girls inside would be happy to provide new entertainment.”

The words had scarcely left his mouth when a coil of rope was quickly looped around his waist, tightly binding his arms to his sides.

Tyrion struggled, now realizing the full extent of Varys’ prior warnings. “Y-You’ve made some kind of mistake!” he gasped, squirming as much as he could to try and free one of his hands. “I-I-I don’t know what’s going on, but if you tell me w-what you think you’re doing, I’ll—”

The stranger tightly knotted his restraints, and then stuffed a thick piece of cloth into his mouth, tying it behind his head.

“I’ve made no mistake. I know you’re Tyrion Lannister.”

Tyrion closed his eyes and groaned through his gag. Seven fucking hells. He really did have the worst luck, didn’t he? Whoever this bounty hunter was, he was definitely Westerosi judging by his accent. He must’ve either tracked him here from King’s Landing or was just another Westerosi sellsword who’d heard about the bounty and was lucky enough to find him. Still, he wasn’t going to let this man take his head to Cersei without a fight. He struggled with everything he had as his abductor swung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and started carrying him off. His squirming evidently didn’t phase him at all, he was so small. Shit.

“As for what I’m doing,” his abductor went on, exiting the alley and hurrying down the road to the docks. “I should think that’s obvious. I’m taking you to the queen and the prince.”

The dwarf blinked, momentarily ceasing his fruitless struggling. The queen and the prince? Cersei was still the queen mother to Tommen unless his nephew had already married Lady Maergery. If that was the case, then Maergery was queen now, but his nephew wasn’t a prince anymore. He’d been crowned king right after Joffrey’s death so that his father could hurry along with his trial. Was this stranger misinformed on the current status in Westeros?

Just what was going on?


	10. The Wolf in the Dragon's Court

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe it? It's another moderately fast update for Howl of the Dragonwolves! You're not dreaming! You get another new chapter only ten days after the previous chapter was posted online, and what a coincidence that this chapter so happens to be Chapter Ten! Talk about fate, lol!
> 
> Well, you've all been waiting for this chapter long enough, anyway. It's the chapter you've been BEGGING me for in all your reviews: Dany and Torrhen's first meeting! You've been waiting for this chapter, and I hope it's everything you'd all hoped it would be and more. At long last, our Mother of Dragons is finally going to meet her lonely Dragonwolf Son... and maybe have a few scoldings to a certain sellsword for being the sole cause as to why this meeting has been delayed for so long? *wink wink*
> 
> I don't want to spoil anything, so I'll wrap this up quickly, but before I do, I want to give a big shout out to Longclaw 1-6 for helping me with a small bit of writers block while I was drafting this chapter. I wanted this first meeting between Dany and Torrhen to be perfect considering how long you've all been patiently waiting for it, so I needed an extra set of eyes to look over a few areas I was struggling with. Thanks again, Longclaw! :D
> 
> Now, a quick note about the total stats for the story! There's been 349 kudos, 93 bookmarks, 8386 views, and once again, we reached the comment goal! 169 comments all together! I'm so proud of you all! Perhaps we can do it again? How does striving to reach 190 comments sound to all of you? I don't think I'm asking for too much at all, not when I know for a fact that all of you have been begging me in the reviews to get to Dany and Torrhen's first meeting! Considering how long you've all been begging to find out when our favorite queen would meet her future son, I'm hoping for a lot of comments from you all this chapter! So please, comment comment comment when you're done reading, lol!
> 
> Now, without further adieu, onto the chapter! And be sure to comment when you're done!
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> \- Elphaba818

Jorah Mormont was both the luckiest, and still most unfortunate man in the world. He an unfortunate man because he’d been exiled twice, yet lucky because for both exiles, he’d found ways to be pardoned for those exiles. Granted, his first pardon he later threw away when he realized it was wrong how he received that pardon, because it meant letting the one true queen of Westeros perish just so he could return to his homeland. Since Daenerys had exiled him, he’d been searching for ways to earn her favor again, especially upon meeting that young boy right after the earthquake.

He prayed nightly that young Torrhen and his wolf had managed to meet his queen and gain her favor. He didn’t have much hope that the boy could convince Daenerys to forgive considering his actions in the past, but at the very least, Torrhen mentioning his name might soften her anger towards him for when he _did_ find a way to regain her trust. And besides, that little boy was a Targaryen bastard. In another lifetime, he probably would’ve grown up as a Blackfyre. Thousands would’ve flocked to support him should he have decided to stake a claim to the Iron Throne. Luckily, it didn’t seem as though that child had any such ideas, as he only cared about meeting Daenerys and finding his sister and their dragon. Jorah kept his eyes and ears open for any whispers of a little girl with silver hair and white dragon, but he’d heard none so far.

However, he had found another possible way to earn his queens’ trust again. And it came in the form of a certain lion he’d been lucky enough to stumble across and kidnap.

The Lannister imp hadn’t stopped fighting him the entire time he’d carried him to the city docks and stolen a fishing boat, struggling fruitlessly despite his bindings. It wasn’t until they had left dry land for the open sea that he finally ceased his struggles. Instead, he chose to persistently annoy him by grumbling muffled words at him through his mouth gag.

“Mmph!” said Tyrion, staring up at him directly from where he was leaning up against the side of the boat. The same place he’d been sitting in since Jorah had dumped him there before casting the whole boat out to see. “Ppth mmph!”

Jorah pointedly ignored him. It was midday now. He’d successfully disregarded his prisoner for the past twelve hours or so. Aside from offering the little man food or water occasionally, he had to ignore his nonstop muffled words and focus on steering. He was _not_ going to show any mercy to a man hailing from the same family that was sitting upon his queen’s throne and birthright.

“Mmph! Mmph!”

He was not going to take that gag out.

He was not.

“Mmph!”

Ignore him. Ignore him. _Ignore hi—_

“Ppth mmph mmph!”

Jorah sighed. Seven hells this was stupid, but if he heard one more muffled grumble, he’d chuck the dwarf into the sea. Stepping away from the rudder, he knelt down in front of his prisoner and tugged the gag from his mouth.

Tyrion gasped for breath as soon as it was gone. “Ugh, I hate that thing. Thank you.”

Jorah said nothing, returning to the rudder.

“So… you obviously know who I am, but who are you?”

“Your captor,” he answered shortly. Tyrion Lannister might be a dwarf, but he was still his queen’s enemy. He might be showing him a bit of kindness by taking the gag out, but he would not let the lion think for a even moment that he was anything less than his prisoner.

Sure enough, the dwarf was silent for a moment, letting his eyes wander out to gaze at the far off shore in the distance. Finally, he glanced around the boat. “Don’t suppose you know what happened to my flask, do you? I was drinking when you snuck up on me.”

Jorah mutely shook his head, expression blank. Seriously? He’d snatched him when the man was taking a piss. He’d been drinking while doing so?

“Then do you have any wine on you? I could really use a drink.”

“No.”

“…I can’t sleep without wine.”

“Don’t, then. Stay awake.”

“But I am a person that drinks.”

“And you’re now the captive of someone who has no drink.”

The imp let out an exasperated sigh, staring out to sea again. Jorah hoped that would’ve been the end of it so things would finally be nice and quiet, but then he started talking again.

“For a kidnapper, you’re sense of direction is just as terrible as your knowledge as a bounty hunter is on who you’re bringing me too.”

Bounty hunter? What? He glanced down at Tyrion, expression carefully neutral. What exactly did his prisoner think was going on?

“We’re going the wrong way, for starters,” the dwarf continued. “My sister and my nephew Tommen are in Westeros, and Westeros is _west._ We’re traveling east. And my sister’s only the queen mother, but my nephew is _king_ now, not a prince.”

Ah, now he understood. “I’m not taking you to your sister or your nephew.”

Tyrion glanced back him, blinking repeatedly. “What? But… But you said back in Volantis you were taking me to the queen and the prince.”

“I am,” Jorah replied, turning the boat slightly upon noticing a rough wave ahead. “To Queen Daenerys Targaryen and the Dragon Prince. They are who I serve.”

The dwarf blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Then he unexpectedly chuckled. Jorah’s brows furrowed. What was so funny? He’d always heard that the runt of Tywin Lannister’s children was supposed to be smart. Had he cracked at some point since his exile from Westeros? That might explain why it’d been so easy to snatch him. Seriously, what idiot didn’t keep their guard up when they were taking a piss in a grungy alley?

“What a waste of a good kidnapping,” he explained, noticing his confusion. “I was already on my way to meet Daenerys Targaryen myself.”

He quirked a brow, unsure whether his captive was lying. “Why would you of all people want to meet the queen?”

“We share mutual enemy, and they say the enemy of my enemy is my friend. If you ever met my sister, you’d understand. So, now that we know we’re on the same side, how about you tell me more about this Dragon Prince whilst you untie me?”

Jorah disregarded his requests, focusing his eyes back on the open sea. He’d be stupid to untie the dwarf just because he claimed to hate his sister. Anyone would say as such if they were in his shoes, and he wasn’t going to tell the dwarf anything more about Torrhen. With any luck, Daenerys would have legitimized him right away upon meeting him so she could have lawful Targaryen heir. Jorah was fairly certain his abduction of the imp happened too fast for anyone to take notice of Tyrion’s absence, but if someone was following them to save the dwarf, he couldn’t afford to let slip too much. Daenerys would never have another child, which meant Torrhen was the sole hope of one day continuing the Targaryen line. His safety was paramount in ensuring the survival of the once great House.

Tyrion was silent for awhile, shooting him a disdainful look, then glanced over at his armor and rucksack over in the corner. “You’re a Northerner, I can tell. You’ve got the accent, yet you’re also a knight, and knights are rare in the North,” he remarked. “All alone in Essos… dragon epaulets, bear sigil breastplate… you’re Jorah Mormont, aren’t you?”

The knight tensed, not replying. Yet that was all the confirmation his captive needed.

“Tell me, what great service were you doing for your queen and this Dragon Prince back at that brothel? And in Volantis, nonetheless?”

He drew a muscle in his cheek, inhaling slowly.

“Seems more like you were cast aside, to me. Why would that be, I wonder? For someone so loyal to his queen to go so far as to capture one of her enemies, it’s very odd.”

His fingers tightened around the rudder. He would not answer this arrogant little shit. It was none of his business, and he was still the one in charge here. Tyrion was just trying to rile him up, make him lose his focus. Nothing more.

“Oh, now I remember. I was half-drunk for most of the small council meetings, but it’s all coming back, now. You agreed to spy on her for a royal pardon back to Westeros.”

It took everything Jorah had to not openly glower. He had to keep his teeth clenched together and not lose his temper. Did this man even know how to shut up without that gag? Perhaps he should put it back in. Even if he started grumbling again, it would still be preferable to listening to him mock him for his past mistakes in his queens’ service.

“She found out, didn’t she? Found out and exiled you, so you’re hoping to win back her favor with me as a gift. Desperate plan, I must say.”

He was not going to hit this little shit. He was not going to hit this little shit. He. Was. Not. Going. To. Hit. This. _Fucking._ Little—

“You really believe Daenerys will feed me to her dragons and pardon you? The reverse is just as likely, I’d say,” the imp grinned. “And there’s nothing in your plan that can earn the favor of this supposed-prince you mentioned. Who is he? Don’t suppose you know if he’s the great ‘Prince that was Promised’ that the red priestess back in Volantis was preaching on about, do you? If he is, he’ll already be with the queen, the other savior. He might just see you as a rival for the queen’s affections.”

That was _it._ He could handle the biting remarks the dwarf made towards his past mistakes and keen theories as to Daenerys would react upon seeing her again, but he would not let Tyrion Lannister speak poorly of Torrhen. That boy was a good lad. A little short-tempered judging by the little he’d seen when the boy tried defending him against the Unsullied that escorted him out of the city, but still a decent boy. Stepping away from the rudder, Jorah marched forward and struck the dwarf hard in the face.

Tyrion groaned, dazed. Jorah paid no mind though and lugged him back up into a sitting position, stuffing the gag back in his mouth. He never should’ve taken it out in the first place. Ignoring his protesting whines, he went back to his prior perch at the back of the small boat.

“You’re the second gift I’m bestowing upon the queen,” he said gruffly, focusing back on the sea again. Tyrion stopped grumbling and blinked at him, surprised. Good, he was finally quiet. Now that he was quiet, he might actually learn something. “My first gift to Daenerys _was_ the Dragon Prince. With any luck, they’ll have already met by now and he’ll have told her just who it was that helped him when no one else would.”

After listening to the arrogant dwarf talk so importantly, Jorah had no qualms at all in seeing the befuddled look on his face. It would have been one thing if Tyrion had simply accurately guessed who he was and left it that, but no, he had to dig in those biting remarks. Had he kept his mouth shut, Jorah probably would have dropped more clues regarding the little he knew about Torrhen Snow from their only meeting, if only to get some ideas from the Lannister on whether he’d heard any tales back in Westeros regarding his mysterious twin sister with a dragon. Now, though? The imp would have to wait until they finally met the Dragon Queen and the Dragon Prince to find out more. Let him think whatever he wanted, for now.

Shaking his head lightly, he focused back on the open sea, wishing there was some way he could force the little boat to go faster. He was going back. He was going back to Meereen to see his queen and the prince. He could only hope that helping Torrhen and bringing Tyrion with him as a prisoner would be enough to earn Daenerys’ forgiveness.

* * *

His head was throbbing, but everything else felt wonderful. Soft and cool. It was such a comforting feeling, wherever he was. Were it not for how much his head was aching, he would have been content to stay lost in this darkness forever. Actually… maybe the pain in his head wasn’t really all that bad. Maybe he could ignore it. So long as he stayed in this welcoming darkness, he would be fine…

Something cold and wet touched his cheek, followed almost immediately by something slimy and hot slurping it repeatedly. What the fuck? He wanted to raise his hands to bat whatever it was away, but for some reason, he couldn’t discern which way was up. And the longer the wet thing kept running across his face, the more he found himself pulled out of the darkness and his head pounding even harder.

It took everything Torrhen had to open his eyes, only to immediately yelp as he was blinded by the unnaturally bright light everywhere and slam his hand over them, causing him to groan a second time as his whole head rattled from the sudden force. The boy didn’t even get the chance to take a look at his surroundings a second time before an excruciatingly loud yip echoed right next to his ear, followed by that hot, slimy thing running up and down his face even faster than before. Only now, it was now nuzzling its entire furry body against his own.

Despite his splitting headache being amplified by both that unnaturally loud yip and his eyes being blinded by his bright surroundings, Torrhen let out a slight chuckle. He didn’t need three guesses to realize just what that hot, wet thing on his face was anymore. “Shadow… Hey, buddy.”

He didn’t dare open his eyes yet, but he could feel his direwolf lick him even harder as he pressed up against him. He was happy his boy was okay, and Torrhen was glad his friend was safe too, wherever they were.

But that still left the mystery as to where they were now. The last thing he remembered was helping Ser Barristan and that one Unsullied — no, wait, _three_ Unsullied, or just one? Unimportant, anyway — from those Sons of the Harpy. Then he got hurt and hit his head… everything was a little fuzzy after that, but he did distinctly remember one of those Unsullied talking to him for a moment before everything just slipped away. He didn’t remember what the man had said or did exactly, just that he’d been up in his face. What happened to him? And what happened to Ser Barristan? Was his future mother’s loyal bodyguard all right?

The boy took a deep breath and attempted to open his eyes again, but the moment he did so, the blinding light pulsated throughout his skull, and he was forced to squeeze them shut again. What was that? Where on earth was he that he was being blinded the very second he woke up? This time, he covered his eyes with both his hands, but left only a fraction of his fingers separated to see through as he slowly peeked out. To his surprise, he wasn’t in that dusty alleyway anymore, nor was he anywhere out in the streets. He was lying on a soft mattress and covered in the finest silken sheets he’d ever seen even when living in Winterfell. But the room he was in was _nothing_ at all like royal quarters of the castle. Instead of fireplaces with crackling flames, there was large, open and airy windows lighting up the whole room with brilliant sunshine, and the walls and floors were composed of the smoothest, most expensive marble surfaces imaginable. It was all so decadent, a new type of wealth and power he’d never seen before.

Were it not for how much his head was killing him and how he quickly had to close his eyes again as the sheer brightness of the warm sunshine bouncing off the walls made his head spin, Torrhen knew he would have been amazed. Instead, all he could do was groan as he slowly tried to sit up. His direwolf had apparently been lying in bed right next to him this entire time, because a sudden low whine followed by a shift in the feather soft mattress brought Shadow even closer.

Torrhen smiled, feeling around for his friends’ furry head even with his eyes shut. “Sorry, boy. Don’t mean to ignore you. I’m just worse for wear, right now. Head hurts even worse than it normally does after a fire flicker, and I think I’m going blind.”

He wasn’t sure where exactly his fingers were fisting through black fur, but he definitely felt a slight breeze near his fingers. Shadow must’ve been wagging. That made Torrhen chuckle.

“Don’t suppose you know where we are, do you, bud? Did Ser Barristan and that other Unsullied guard make it out okay?” His friends’ familiar head pressed up against his chest, promptly licking his face again. “Ugh! Shadow, no! Watch out for the lips!”

The boy lightly shoved him off him, only for his brows to furrow as he felt his fingers brush up against something odd on Shadow’s fur. It almost felt like… cotton? He chanced a quick peek. His head throbbed from the quick flash of light, but he definitely caught a glimpse of bandages wrapped securely around his wolf’s fur. Wherever they were, someone had tended to his best friends’ injuries. That was good to know.

He needed to thank whoever it was. And he needed to know where he was. Which meant that somehow, he had to find a way to navigate out of this room while blind.

Torrhen took a deep breath to brace himself before hesitantly looking around again. Despite his involuntary grunt as the light pulsated through his skull, he let his eyes dazedly sweep across the small chamber to find the door. Pausing only once when he noticed his sword belt and lute lying on a small table in a corner, he at last spotted the open archway exit.

It was a relief when he could finally close his eyes again, as his whole brain felt rattled. Pressing his fingers against a particularly painful ache on the side of his head, he felt wrappings knotted through his hair. How badly had he hurt his head when that Harpy knocked him down into the rubble? If he was going to be blinded by bright lights for the rest of his life because of that jerk, he was screwed when it came to finally meeting the queen or eventually finding Lyaella and Sōnar. Pretty hard to do anything in regards to changing the future for the better if you couldn’t see what was happening.

Groaning lightly at the thought, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and shakily stood up. He immediately felt his whole body become lightheaded and dizzy, and Shadow promptly leapt down next to him so he could hold onto him.

“Thanks, Shadow, I appreciate your help. Don’t suppose you could lead me over to that table over there, could you? Gotta get my stuff before we can get explore.”

The wolf whined an affirmative. Walking slowly so his dazed boy could keep up, Shadow led Torrhen over to the table. Waiting patiently for his little master to clip back on his sword belt, money pouch, and grab his lute and cloak, he then led Torrhen over to the doorway before the boy could even ask him too. Direwolves were incredibly smart, after all.

They moved incredibly slowly down the hall, but Torrhen didn’t mind. Aside from the occasional peeks through his fingers covering his eyes to protect himself from the sheer brightness of the area, he had no idea where they were, but wherever it was, it was definitely very bright. There was no forms of drapes anywhere to block out the sun, making it impossible for him to fully look around at his surroundings, but he could tell that it was still very rich and exotic. Wherever he was, he hoped to find a dark place with heavy curtains and a nice chair to sit down on soon. He hated being all but blind, and this whole walk was making him all the more dizzy and disoriented.

“Do you see anyone around, boy? Anyone that can explain where we are?”

Shadow whined sadly, pressing up against him.

Torrhen sighed. “It’s all right. Just keep an eye out for me, okay? We need to—”

“Oh, you awake. Good.”

The boy jumped. “Hello?” he called out, head whipping around to his left. “Is someone there?”

There was the distinctive sound of footsteps approaching. “I here. You all rihgt, boy? Why cover eyes?”

Torrhen wished he could look at whoever was talking to him. It was a man talking to him, that much he knew, but whoever it was was speaking in heavily accented, broken Common Tongue. “I… I’m not sure who you are or where I am, but I hurt my head. Everything’s… dizzy for me right now. And it’s way too bright in here. My headache gets worse when I look around.”

There was a brief pause, then whoever it was grunted a bit before Torrhen felt a roughly calloused hand gently move his fingers away from his eyes. “Can you open eyes for minute?”

“But I just told you—”

“I know. I need to check pupils. See if dilated.”

Torrhen sighed, then squeezed Shadow’s fur tightly to brace himself as he slowly opened his eyes. He immediately groaned, the light in the hall blazing straight through his retinas. He would have groaned and let his eyes flutter shut again, but then he took note of the heavily bandaged body bent over in front of him. The dark-skinned man looked like he was in a good deal of pain himself, as his shirtless torso was wrapped in so many layers of bandages around his right shoulder and stomach, but despite his discomfort, he ignored his pain. Instead, he focused solely on Torrhen himself, gazing directly at his eyes. Torrhen had no idea what he found so fascinating about his eyes, but even though the man looked vaguely familiar, he didn’t have the energy to dwell over him. Just standing there in this light-blinding hallway while forcing himself to keep his eyes open to stare at the stranger directly was making his head pound and his stomach flip flop repeatedly.

He eventually broke his gaze, his nauseousness overwhelming him. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut to force the nausea away. “I… I think I’m gonna…”

Too late. He tried to turn and move away in time, but even with his eyes closed the world still spun around him in a dizzying manner. He fell to all fours as he violently threw up.

Within seconds, Torrhen heard the injured man groan in pain as he knelt down next to him. “Boy, you still have concussion. I take you back to chamber. You rest.”

He felt himself being dragged back to his feet, but instead of letting himself being tugged away, Torrhen kept his feet rooted to the spot, holding onto Shadow to keep himself where he was. “Wait… tell me where I am. Where am I?”

The tugging ceased. “You in Great Pyramid. Ser Barristan and I bring you here after attack. Queen had maester come look you over. They say you might still be hurt when wake up. You are. You come rest.”

Again, Torrhen felt the man try to steer away, but the boy snatched his arm back eagerly.

“Wait, I’m in the _Great Pyramid?_ Queen Daenerys is here?”

“Yes. You meet her later. For now, come with—”

“No! I-I-I have to see her! Immediately! Come on, Shadow!”

He started walking randomly, nearly slipping in the puddle of vomit in his haste. Luckily, that didn’t happen and he stayed upright, but when he felt the unknown man’s hand try to grab him again, he shrugged him off and kept walking blindly forward. He had no qualms with doing this… until—

_Smack!_

“Ow!” he yelped, releasing his grip on Shadow and dropping his lute and gray cloak to instinctively clutch his head, pain amplified at least hundred times more than usual through his whole skull as he walked face-first into a wall.

The stranger carefully turned him around. “You all right?”

Torrhen nodded, dazed. “I think so…”

“You go lie down, like I say. You meet queen later.”

“No. I’ve… I’ve been stuck on the streets for months now because I haven’t been able to see her, and even before that… I’ve been waiting my whole life to meet Daenerys Targaryen. I’ve gotta see her now.”

There was a brief pause, then he heard the man sigh. “Wait here.”

“What? Why—”

But the sound of footsteps pandering off echoed down the hall, leaving Torrhen all alone except for Shadow at his side.

“What’s going on, boy? Can you tell me where he’s going?” Torrhen asked his wolf. Shadow only pressed up against his legs, silent as a mouse. Torrhen huffed at the lack of help and decided to do as the man asked. Perhaps he was doing him a favor by bringing his future mother directly to him.

Sadly, the echoing of footsteps wandering closer to him a few minutes later revealed only one pair of feet. The man had come back alone. “Here,” he said, passing something round and metallic into the boys’ hands. “Put this on.”

“Put what on? What is this?”

“Unsullied helmet. Has face visor. Might be easier to look through.”

Torrhen felt around for the helmet opening, and quickly slipped it on before opening his eyes again. Sure enough, the singular vision did indeed block out the vast majority of light, and while the little bit he could see was still quite disorienting, it was much easier for him to handle than without the helmet. “It works! Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, if you really want to see queen, come with me. I take you. But tell me if you start feeling sick or dizzy. Maesters told us you’d be unwell for awhile from head trauma.”

“Fine,” Torrhen said with a slight huff. “But if I can’t get there, you have to bring the queen to me. I’ve… I’ve been waiting too long to finally see her, and I need to meet her.”

The man lightly chuckled. “Very well. Come.”

“Okay. Come on, Shadow.”

Wagging his tail lightly, the direwolf lightly trotted along beside his young master as Torrhen slowly trudged along behind the injured Unsullied soldier.

* * *

“So, the boy fell unconscious _after_ hitting his head, you say?”

“Yes.”

“But he froze up and… ‘spaced out’ _before_ he got hurt?”

“Yes, that’s right. Pardon my asking, but why does that matter?”

“I’m just making sure I have all the facts on what happened, ser. When it comes to head trauma, it’s important to know the full extent as to what happened.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not sure how many more times you’ve gotta keep asking him the same questions. He’s told us all the story so many times now _I_ could tell you what happened, and I wasn’t even there.”

“That’s enough, Daario. He is only doing his job. You will show him proper respect.”

“Right. Sorry, my queen.”

Dany didn’t dare drop her heated look until Daario lost his cocky grin. Turning back to the healer, she smiled politely. “Please, continue.”

The middle-aged Ghiscari healer nodded. “It’s hard to say whether or not the boy will have any lasting damage until he awakens and I can examine him again. That he passed out right after the injury occurred is potentially worrying, as one should never sleep right after a head injury.”

“Will he be all right?” Missandei asked. “He’s only a child, and he saved her grace’s most trusted bodyguard and the Captain of the Unsullied.”

“Yes, I recall you mentioning that, but like I said, I can’t know for sure until he wakes.”

“Do you have any idea when he might?” asked Dany.

He frowned, thinking hard. “I’d say sometime later this evening, or tomorrow morning at the latest, your grace.”

“Suppose he doesn’t?” Hizdahr inquired. “What if he sleeps longer than that?”

“Then there _is_ a problem and he most likely endured permanent brain damage. However, I don’t believe there should be any lasting side effects. I won’t know for sure unless he doesn’t wake up, but because you summoned me here right away to check him over, I’m fairly certain that he’ll be fine.”

Dany smiled. “Good, I’m glad to hear that. Hopefully that young boy will awaken soon and I’ll be able to personally thank him for saving the lives of two of my most trusted bodyguards.”

The healer nodded again, but then his lips sunk down in a slight frown. He focused back on Ser Barristan standing behind her. “Just one last thing about the boy during the attack. The way he froze up as you described?”

“Yes, I recall,” Barristan nodded. “What about that?”

“I have to ask… how did he look when that happened?”

Dany was confused by the inquiry, and glanced back over her shoulder. Her faithful knight was equally puzzled, and tilted his head to the side.

“How did he ‘look?’ I… I don’t understand what you mean.”

“His facial features. What was the expression on his face like?”

Barristan furrowed his brows, his confusion growing. “He was a bit of a ways off from me, so I’m not sure, but even when that happened I was focusing on the last Harpy attacking me. I didn’t get a good look at his face.”

“Pardon my asking, but why are you so curious about that?” Missandei asked. “When Grey Worm described the attack earlier, he was confused as to why the boy stopped so suddenly, but he said it only lasted for a moment or two before he snapped out of it. He assumed the child froze out of hesitating to kill another person.”

The healer nodded, expression thoughtful. “I see. If that’s why he froze up like that, then that’s perfectly understandable. I was just worried that…” he trailed off, rubbing his chin as he considered things.

“Yes? Go on, please. Worried about what?”

He waved off Dany’s question, shaking his head as he rose from his chair. “If it was simply a case of a child hesitating to harm another, then there’s no need for concern. That’s perfectly normal for a boy his age, or for any person when forced to take a life for the first time. But if it wasn’t…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t wish to alarm all of you for no reason, especially if it was only a case of understandable hesitance. Just… keep an eye on his condition for now. Be sure to contact myself or another healer in the sickhouses no matter the time if he awakens during the middle of the night, as he’ll have to be examined right away.”

“Very well. You have my sincere gratitude for all you’ve done.”

Bowing politely to the queen and her small council, the healer smiled and followed the two Unsullied guards out of the small council chambers.

Barristan let out a deep sigh of relief as soon as he was gone. “I’m grateful you allowed me to bring the boy here, your grace. Especially after all the trouble he’s caused.”

“Of course, Ser Barristan. I would never turn away an injured child, regardless of how he’s tried sneaking in before,” Dany claimed. “But I must ask why you felt it necessary to bring him here instead of one of the many sickhouses? I’m happy to help him, but surely that would have been quicker than bringing him here and then having a healer brought in.”

“You should’ve taken him to a sickhouse. Considering he’s been such pest lately, the last thing we should do is reward that brat by letting him here in the pyramid,” Daario grumbled.

“I hate to agree with Captain Naharis, but in this instance I must admit he’s right,” Hizdahr said. “I have nothing against him and I hope he’ll be all right, but considering all the security problems he’s caused, it wasn’t wise to bring him here. We still don’t know what he wants.”

“Actually, I think I have a good idea as to why that boy has been trying to sneak in here so badly,” Barristan interrupted.

Dany turned to him, intrigued. “You do? Did he tell you so himself? Please explain, Ser Barristan.”

But the knight only shook his head, smiling apologetically. “He didn’t state it out right, your grace. I merely met up with him by chance out in the marketplace prior to the attack and chatted with him for awhile. However… I noticed certain things about him. Things I doubt he himself is even aware of…”

“I’m sorry?”

Barristan turned to glance out the window as he sighed. “Forgive me, your grace, but if my theory as to what this boy might want is correct, it’s better for you to hear it directly from him. I’m not trying to avoid your question, but if I’m wrong…” he frowned, looking extremely pensive. “I believe this boy might be answered prayer. If my suspicions are correct, it’s _vital_ you see him right away.”

Dany was perplexed. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that Barristan Selmy was one of the most loyal, honorable men she’d ever had the privilege of meeting. He’d traveled halfway across the world just to serve in her queensguard out of loyalty and devotion to her late brother Rhaegar and to House Targaryen. She could tell he wasn’t trying to be sneaky or manipulative, but what was so important about this young boy that required her immediate attention?

She was pulled out of her thoughts by a derisive snort, courtesy of her lover. “Don’t tell me that you fell for that boy’s lies? It’s ludicrous, what he’s claiming.”

Daario obviously knew a few more specifics about what that boy wanted — he’d said so himself when they had discussed the child in passing earlier this morning — but why exactly did he believe him to be a liar? He was only a boy, after all. Dany opened her mouth to ask him what he knew, but before she could say anything, Barristan abruptly spun around, incredulous.

“Wait… did that boy tell you who he was? When you spoke to him before, I mean.”

The sellsword shrugged, nonchalant. “He told me the biggest, stupidest lie I’ve ever heard,” he chuckled. “Trust me, I’ve heard a lot of lies from people over the years. This one, though? This one was so stupid and absurd, the entire reception area broke out laughing.”

“Yet you didn’t bring him _here_ to meet the queen?!” the knight demanded, affronted. Hizdahr stared, but Dany exchanged a quick, discrete look of surprise with Missandei. Aside from how enraged he’d been when they all found out about Ser Jorah’s betrayal, neither of the ladies had ever seen the old knight so furious before. “You didn’t think his story was at least a good reason to have her grace judge that for herself?! Did you even take a good look at his _eyes?!_ _”_

For once, Daario lost his usual arrogant swagger. He blinked at the knight, genuinely perplexed. “His eyes? Why would I—?”

“How much farther? Even with this thing on, it’s still so bright!”

“Don’t worry, we’re here. Wait here for one moment.”

Dany and her advisers all turned. Grey Worm was strolling through the open archway, his pace relatively slow due to his injuries.

“My queen,” he said, bowing as deeply as he could despite the obvious pain in caused his shoulder. “I not interrupting?”

Dany blinked twice before shaking her head. “Of course not, I’m glad to see you’re all right.”

“You should be resting!” Missandei added, hurrying over to support him when he grunted while straightening up. “The maester told you to stay in bed or else risk pulling your stitches!”

A ghost of a smile appeared on the soldier’s face for a moment at the lingering touch from the Naathi translator, and that brought a small smile to Dany’s face, too. Grey Worm was a good man, regardless of the horrors that had been inflicted upon him by the master’s to make him part of the Unsullied, and Missandei was her dearest friend in the whole world. She hoped that one of them would find the strength to take the initiative in their relationship soon. They deserved happiness, especially now that they were free. Finally, Grey Worm managed to reluctantly tear his gaze away from Missandei to focus back on her.

“Forgive me, my queen, but the boy woke. He wanted to—”

“Argh! Fucking hell! Are there no drapes in this place?!”

The course language in the shout made everyone turn. Standing in the entryway was a small boy with an enormous black wolf at his hip and carrying a lute with a thick gray cloak draped over one of his arms. Oddly enough though, he was wearing Grey Worm’s Unsullied helmet with the visor down, yet he had his hands blocking his face and his chin tucked down to his chest, as though deliberately not wanting to look at anything.

“Too bright! Too bright!” he whined, completely turn around to avoid looking at anything in the room.

Dany could only blink repeatedly. Missandei and Hizdahr mimicked her, but Daario did a double-take, eyes boggling. “The hell’s his problem?” he quietly murmured. Outwardly, she threw the sellsword a sharp look to watch his mouth, but on the inside, she couldn’t help but wonder the same thing. What on earth were they witnessing here?

Ser Barristan was the only one there to quickly hurry around the long table and join Grey Worm in checking the boy over. “Torrhen! Are you all right?” he asked, quite concerned. “I’m glad you’re awake, but what’s wrong?”

Grey Worm frowned. “Too bright in here?”

The boy deliberately passed his lute to his wolf to hold between his teeth to cover his eyes with both hands through the eye slit in the helmet before daring to turn around, nodding vaguely in Grey Worm’s direction. “Aye. It’s… It’s too bright!” he whined. “It hurts to look at it!”

Dany was still puzzled, but she still stepped forward, making sure to clear her throat so her soldiers would notice her. “What’s going on? Is he all right?”

“He’s still hurt by concussion,” Grey Worm explained. “Concussions have various effects.”

“Are you light sensitive right now, Torrhen?” Barristan asked, gently touching the boys’ shoulder. “Is that the problem?”

The boy weakly nodded, still not daring to uncover his eyes. “Aye… that Unsullied guy gave me his helmet to hopefully make it easier for me to look around. It worked out in the hall, but it’s brighter here than back there…”

The queen considered this explanation, then promptly turned to her handmaiden. “Missandei, would you be kind enough to draw back the curtains, please?”

“Right away, your grace.”

She turned back to the boy, smiling gently even though she knew he couldn’t see her. Even so, he had gone completely rigid, his head snapping around to focus on her general direction. She lightly patted his shoulder so he’d know she was addressing him.

“If you’ll come with me, I’ll escort you straight ahead to the council table. We can sit down and talk.”

“O-Okay. Thank you…”

Still keeping his eyes covered with one hand, he reached out aimlessly for her until she took his hand in her own, and walked at an even pace back to the large circular table. His wolf stayed right on his heels, trotting along quietly without making a sound… or at least it did until her sellsword lover tried to quietly draw out his arakh. Within seconds, the beast sprang forward with a ferocious snarl, hackles raised as it growled menacingly at Daario.

Dany automatically gasped, jumping lightly. Hizdahr nearly slipped over the expensive silken rug and Missandei screamed. Grey Worm ignored the pain from his wound as he reached pulled out a dagger in a reverse grip hold. Aside from the boy, Ser Barristan was the only one there to not be alarmed.

“Torrhen! Torrhen, why’s your wolf suddenly growling?”

The boy only shook his head, befuddled. “How should I know? I can’t see, remember? Have the curtains been pulled back? When they are I can check to see what startled Shadow.”

The queen was still on edge, but she still forced herself to glance back over to Missandei. It took Missandei a few seconds longer to snap out of her own state of shock. Gulping thickly as she stared unblinkingly at the massive black wolf, she slowly reached over for the pull cord without looking at it. The sheer scarlet curtains fell back, casting the whole room in tinted red shade.

“We drew back the drapes,” Dany said slowly, making sure to keep her apprehension out of her tone. “You can try opening your eyes, now.”

Slowly, the boy lowered his hand and looked around. After a momentary pause, he reached up and tugged off the helmet, revealing a thick mop of untidy black curls.

“Better, much better,” he said happily. He turned to look up at her, only to immediately freeze in place. He stared, seemingly in awe.

Dany smiled. "I’m glad to see you’re doing well," she said kindly. “I’m sure you already know who I am, but allow me to say this for the great service you have given me in spite of the risk. I am Daenerys Targaryen, and it is my honor and pleasure to meet you."

The boy jumped at the introduction, and promptly attempted to bow. “T-Thank you, your grace. I’m very pleased to— woah!”

He seemed to get quite dizzy from the bow, and would’ve toppled over her had she not instinctively caught him. “Oh, are you all right? Take a seat, please,” she offered, helping the boy back to his feet and gesturing to the closest chair at the small table. “Just please call off your wolf first. I don’t want it attacking the leader of my sellswords.”

The boy glanced down at his pet before glancing over in open disdain at the frozen stiff form of Daario off to the right. There was a long pause, then the boy shook his head. “I mean no offense or disrespect to _you,_ Queen Daenerys… but no.”

Dany blinked, as did her council members. Daario jerked back, his head whipping back and forth between the boy and his wolf with his jaw agape.

“What?! You’re — you’re _not_ gonna — you won’t…? _Why the fuck not?!_ _”_

The boy gave him a dry look. “Why should I? Shadow’s doing what I’ve trained him to do — _protect me._ Considering you’re the jerk who’s drawing a blade less than five feet away from me right now _and_ you and the rest of the Second Sons are half the reason why we’ve been starving on the streets of this city for the past two months, I don’t see why I should.”

The queen could only stare. His biting words were totally unexpected, yet at the same time, he had a legitimate point. But what was that he said about him and the Second Sons being directly responsible as to why he and his wolf had been starving for the past two months? Composing herself, she recovered her queenly mask and fixed the sellsword captain with a neutral look. “Sheathe your weapon, Daario.”

“What—? But… But my queen—”

“I have given you an order. You would do well to follow it.” She then looked down at the boy. “I’ll admit I do not know what you’re referring to when you say that Daario and the Second Sons are the reason why you and your wolf here have been starving, but please tell your wolf to stand down, then we’ll talk.”

Still, the boy didn’t do as she asked… at least not until Daario fully sheathed his arakh and backed off. Only then did the boy finally grin. “Okay, Shadow. Down, boy.”

Just like that, the wolf calmed itself — slowly plopping down and sitting as it wagged its fluffy black tail happily, gazing up at its master with its bright red eyes.

“Thank you. Now please, take a seat.”

The boy nodded, sliding down into the closest chair at the council table.

Dany smiled politely, and then nodded to the others to take their own seats as she swept around the table to sit down directly across from him.

“Now then, as I understand—”

“So, you’re really— oh!” said the boy initially excited, but quickly becoming sheepish upon realizing he’d accidentally cut her off. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt!”

Had that been an adult, Dany would’ve been offended, but she could see that the boy was genuinely apologetic, and waved away his concern. “You seem to rather excited, I must say. More than I expected an injured boy your age would be.”

“Well, of course I’m excited! I’ve been trying to meet you for months now, since I first came to Meereen! You have no idea how hard I’ve been trying to meet you… You’re not an easy person to meet for someone to meet, you know.”

She tilted her head, slightly puzzled. “I’m sorry? I’m afraid I don’t understand. Aside from the most recent weeks due to the Harpy attacks, my court is always open to the common people. Had you come then, I would’ve gladly seen to you if you’d waited your turn.”

He scowled at her, then shot Daario a rather ugly look. “Didn’t you hear me a second ago? It’s _that_ asshole’s fault!”

Daario huffed, folding his across his chest and kicking his feet up on the table. “Oh, for the love of…! My queen, I’m telling you—”

She held up a hand, hushing him promptly. She didn’t even spare Daario a glance. “I remember, but like I just said, I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Well, I—”

Dany shook her head, smiling politely. “I’m not trying to disregard you right now, but it seems to me you’re launching into the middle of a discussion without fully explaining yourself. Let’s start over from the beginning, all right? Can you tell me your name?”

He blinked at her, then glanced over at Barristan, Grey Worm, and even Daario. “Didn’t any of them tell you about me? I mean, they—” he gestured vaguely to Barristan and Grey Worm “—brought me here, I assume, and he—” he paused, shooting Daario a bitter glare “—just said he’d tried telling you something about me.”

“I’m asking you, not them,” she countered. “What is your name?”

“Torrhen. Torrhen Snow, and this is Shadow, my direwolf brother.”

All eyes turned to look at the black wolf. Shadow had been lying down quietly, but his ears perked up at the mention of his name.

Hizdahr shuddered as the wolf’s red eyes fixated on him. “Direwolves… those are extinct,” he muttered, edging back slightly in his seat. “They died out over a thousand years ago, and even if they didn’t, they supposedly live only far to the North of Westeros. Beyond the Wall.”

Torrhen turned to him, rolling his eyes. “They’re no more extinct than dragons are,” he said irritably. “They’re not dead, and they’re _not_ beyond the Wall anymore. If anything, they’re extinct beyond the Wall and only live South of it now. Shadow here’s probably one of the last of his kind.”

“What makes you say that?”

“What makes you question it?”

Hizdahr fell silent, unable to think up a logical retort. Dany couldn’t help but raise a brow. It was nice to see the eloquent noble silenced for once.

“Forgive me, Torrhen, I’ll admit I never received a formal education,” she said, bringing Torrhen’s eyes back to her, “but as I understand it, your surname of ‘Snow’ is the common surname for those born illegitimate in the North of Westeros, correct?”

He frowned. “Aye, that’s one way of putting it,” he sighed, turning away and scratching his wolf behind the ears. “Bastard’s the most common term…”

“Well, you’re a long way from home, then,” she remarked. “Regardless, I wish to thank you for what you did for two of my most loyal bodyguards. You and your wolf saved them, and I’m so sorry you got hurt like that.”

He shook his head. “It was no trouble, really. I was happy to help. “I just met Ser Barristan right before that attack happened. Thank you again for that roasted duck, by the way,” he added, turning to the knight. “Shadow and I both loved it.”

Barristan smiled. “You’re welcome. I’m simply glad you’re all right, and that I could help you finally meet her grace.”

“Aye, thanks again.”

“I thank you, too, Torrhen Snow,” said Grey Worm. “Ser Barristan and I outnumbered. We might not both made it if not for you and wolf.”

He only shrugged. “I don’t know about that, but if I helped changed the outcome of that fight, then I’m glad I could help you…” he suddenly blinked, as though realizing something. Everyone stared as he squeezed his eyes shut while rubbing his temples, looking lost in thought. Finally, he glanced up again, looking relatively sheepish. “Um… I think I only know the queens’ name, Ser Barristan’s, and the asshole Daario’s name—”

“Say that again—?!”

“—I don’t think I caught anyone else’s.”

Dany frowned. Regardless of Daario’s attitude, it was still no excuse for the boy’s own rudeness. “I would ask that you refrain from further insulting the Captain of the Second Sons from now on. I don’t know why you are so cross with him, but so long as you’re here in the Great Pyramid, you shall show my small council members proper respect.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts.’ I will let it go this time, but I will not tolerate further attitude from this moment forward. Are we clear?”

He stared at her for a long moment, almost looking dumbfounded, then blew a puff of hot air at a lone curl of hair hanging over his eyes. “Fine…” he muttered, looking sullenly off to the side.

Strange… the way Torrhen was pouting right now was like how a boy his age would sulk if he’d been scolded by his mother. Would Rhaego have acted the same way?

The queen unconsciously flinched at the thought. Swiftly moving her hands to her lap, she squeezed them tightly beneath the table. She mustn’t think about that. She mustn’t remember the horrible pain she’d endured only a few years ago. To remember was to admit to being conquered by her own mistakes and memories. Swallowing thickly, she moved on. “Regardless, it’s my pleasure to welcome you to the Great Pyramid, and to introduce you to the rest of my advisers. This is Missandei, of the Isle of Naath—” her handmaiden smiled kindly to the boy “—Hizdahr zo Loraq, the head of one of the noble families here in Meereen—” the noble rose, bowing politely “—and as you already know Ser Barristan and Daario’s names, this is Grey Worm, the chosen leader amongst the Unsullied.”

Torrhen had courteously nodded to Missandei and Hizdahr, but the moment he heard Grey Worm’s name, he jerked and tried to spin around. The fast action made him get all dizzy again, and seconds later he toppled out of his chair.

“Ow!”

“Torrhen!”

“You all right, boy? That looked like it—”

“Don’t touch me!”

Grey Worm blinked. He had tried to help the boy back into his seat, but Torrhen’s sudden shout had surprised everyone. If he noticed their stares, he didn’t comment on it. He just focused on slowly climbing back into the chair.

“There, see? I’m fine. I don’t need your help,” he grumbled. Reaching over for the helmet he borrowed, he passed it back to the soldier without even looking at him. “And I don’t need this anymore, either.”

Dany exchanged a look of confusion with Grey Worm, but the man looked just as confused as she was as to what had caused the boy to become so bitter so suddenly. Regardless, Grey Worm obeyed her discrete head shake so he wouldn’t push the child to explain himself. He simply accepted his helmet back and returned to his seat without a word.

Daario however didn’t seem to care about whether or not this wasn’t the best time to not act like his usual arrogant self, and snorted disrespectfully. “Well, that’s interesting…”

Torrhen’s head snap around, fixing the sellsword with a piercing look. “What’s interesting?” he demanded.

 _“You._ I find it interesting that you don’t want his help after he helped save your life…” he said, grinning smugly as he folded his arms behind his head.

The boy jolted. “What?”

Barristan frowned. “You don’t remember? Grey Worm was the one who killed the Harpy that would have killed you back in that alleyway. He never would have had the chance had you not jumped into the fray when you did.”

“Thank you so much for helping Grey Worm and Ser Barristan during that fight,” Missandei added. “Things… Things could’ve turned out a lot worse if you hadn’t.”

Torrhen said nothing. He just glanced over at Grey Worm with an unreadable look, then stiffly nodded before reaching over to pet his wolf again.

“As I understand it, Torrhen,” Dany went on, bringing everyone’s attention back to her. “You’re the young boy whose been causing quite a few problems for my guards here in the Great Pyramid. You and your wolf have tried sneaking in more times than any of them can count. Is that true?”

He nodded. “Aye, your grace.”

“May I inquire as to why?”

“To meet you, of course. Sorry if I caused trouble, but I was desperate! I wouldn’t have had to do that if not for _him—_ _”_ he glared at Daario “—and the rest of the Second Son’s. I know I promised to be polite to him, but if I were you I’d fire your current sellswords and go hire the Golden Company instead. They’re honorable and wouldn’t have let people like me and Shadow starve on the streets like they did!”

Daario clenched his fist, temper rising. “Listen, brat—”

Dany raised a hand for silence. “You keep blaming Daario, stating it’s his fault, but I don’t understand what you mean. How is the fact that you and your wolf have been starving his and the rest of the Second Son’s fault?”

Torrhen huffed. Shooting Daario one more spiteful look, he glanced back to Dany. “I first arrived in Meereen two months ago, the same day as the earthquake. Me and Shadow… we got separated from my twin sister and our honorary sister before we even got here, but I got hurt when we did. Were it not Ser Jorah taking me to—”

“Ser Jorah?” she interrupted, blinking in surprise. “You don’t mean the Northern knight Jorah Mormont, do you?”

He nodded. “Aye, that’s right. He found me right after the earthquake.”

“Is he still here in Meereen? When did you last see him? Speak to him? What were you doing with him?”

Torrhen frowned, tilting his head to the side. “I only met him once, your grace, and that was the day of the earthquake. I hurt my ankle and couldn’t walk. He found me and took me to a sickhouse to get fixed up. Once I realized who he was I tried begging him to take me here next to meet you, but then the Unsullied came and dragged him out of the city, saying that you ordered them to do that.”

She relaxed. “That’s right. I did.”

“Why?” he asked. “He seemed like a good man. Devoted to your cause, and unlike _him—_ _”_ he threw Daario another dirty look “—he believed me. Other than Ser Barristan giving me money and buying me and Shadow our first decent meal in months, Ser Jorah was the only person I met who was willing to help us.”

There was a long, tense silence as her advisers exchanged uneasy looks. Dany was quite rigid and refused to meet anyone’s gaze. Aside from this young boy, everyone there already knew the reason as to Jorah had been banished, but the queen had never disclosed to any of them the full extent of the Northerner’s betrayal. None of them knew about Rhaego, about how her whole world had shattered when she lost her baby boy. Jorah might have buried her child to spare her from more pain of seeing what that horrible woman’s blood magic had done to her sweet son, but the fact that he played a role in nearly killing herself and her child before Rhaego was even born was what hurt the most. That was what hurt the most from the knight’s duplicity, and it was the reason why she could never pardon him, regardless of how many times he had protected her since then.

“That matter is a private affair, and one which I am not at liberty to discuss,” she said finally. “However, I don’t understand how you being found by Ser Jorah prior to his exile from Meereen is relevant to how Daario is responsible for you and your wolf to be starving.”

“Simple. Ser Jorah couldn’t help me meet you after I told him why it was so important that I talk to you because you exiled him. Before he got thrown out, he told me to come here and wait to see you like everyone else does. Once my ankle was better I did that, but then that shithead threw me out of the reception hall!”

Daario scowled. “All right, that does it! My queen, listen to me when I say that this whole charade has gone on long enough! This brat is nuts! You’re going to be insulted if you keep listening to his lies!”

A dark look spread across Barristan Selmy’s face as he slowly rose, towering over the arrogant sellsword with an infuriated glare. “You would do well to stop making excuses for yourself, Daario Naharis. When all is said and done, I’m certain her grace will be demanding a full explanation as to why you wouldn’t allow this boy to see her when he first arrived and tried to meet her properly.”

Daario huffed, rolling his eyes. “And unlike this brat, I intend to tell our queen the truth.” He turned to Dany, lips quickly turning up into a self-assured grin. “I am loyal to you, my queen, no one else. Trust me, you don’t need to listen to this lying little brat any more. Just say the word and I’ll have my men toss him out of the city like Jorah the Andal.”

Dany’s face hardened. She nearly scolded her lover for his arrogance, but Torrhen beat her to the punch.

“Are you stupid, or something?” he asked. “If you were truly loyal to the queen’s cause, you’d have the brains to know that Ser Jorah’s a Northerner like me, so we’re both directly descended from the First Men of Westeros. Andals are everyone in Westeros who live south of the Neck.”

Now Daario seemed to be getting genuinely mad. “Watch your tongue, brat, or else you might lose it.”

 _“Daario,”_ she hissed, flashing him a scathing look. Her lover huffed irritably, but luckily stayed silent. Then she turned her anger towards the young boy. “I warned you to show respect to my small council. This is your last chance, understand?”

Torrhen scowled. “I wasn’t trying to be rude that time. I meant that literally. Only an idiot would call a First Man an Andal. It’s a serious insult to Northerners, calling us Andals!”

To be fair, Jorah had never told any of them that. He never liked it when people here in Essos called him an Andal, but he never corrected them on it either. Still, how was this boy to know that. “Duly noted. Moving on, what is so important that you felt it necessary to meet me, Torrhen Snow? Why did Ser Jorah believe you to be telling the truth about this matter right away while Daario thinks you to be lying, and Ser Barristan believes you enough to bring you here to let me judge for myself?”

“My queen, there’s no point—”

“Your grace, if I may—”

“I wish to hear his reason for myself, Ser Barristan, Daario. I shall be the one to determine if this boy is a liar, or an honest child.” She nodded politely to Torrhen. “Go ahead, state your reason.”

He smiled. “Like I said, my name is Torrhen Snow, and Shadow here’s my direwolf brother. My twin sister though? Her name is Lyaella Snow, and our other sister’s name is Sōnar, even though she’s actually our dragon.”

Everyone jerked at that, but none more so than Dany. “I… what? Say that again?”

“Our dragon, Sōnar. She’s about the size of a horse right now.”

She blinked, struggling to process his words. “And… And why exactly would the two of you have a dragon?”

“Because Lya and me are Targaryen bastards.”

Daario scoffed at that while Ser Barristan smiled knowingly, but everyone else went wide-eyed with shock. Dany’s shock outweighed them all, though. She forgot all about maintaining her usual queenly mask as she stared at Torrhen, lips parting slightly in her disbelief. Of all the reasons she might have suspected that this boy was so desperate to meet her, this idea had never even crossed her mind. And what was that he said about him and his sister having a dragon? Her dragons were supposed to be the only three in the world.

It took her several moments to find her voice. “I… I need a moment,” she declared, rising from her seat. No one said anything as she crossed the room to stare through the sheer curtains covering the window. Her mind was a jumbled mess, but at that same time, it was utterly blank. What was she supposed to say to this? Was it really true and she wasn’t alone anymore? Or was he just lying to get attention because he was starving and wanted a better life? If it was the latter, she couldn’t be too angry with the child since he was only a child, but if it was the former… everything she knew was changing before her eyes.

It was nearly a full minute before she finally found the strength to turn and face Torrhen and his wolf again. “You’re a Targaryen bastard, you say?” she asked. He nodded earnestly. “How can that be true? Since the death of my brother Viserys, I am the last Targaryen. Everyone else with my blood was killed during the rebellion by Robert the Usurper.”

Torrhen sat up straighter. “Well, Lyaella and I are directly descended from House Targaryen, but because we’re also Northerners, we’ve got Northern traces in our features. I’ve Northern dark hair with Targaryen violet eyes, but she’s got Targaryen silver hair and Northern gray eyes. If she were here, you’d believe us right away about being related to your house, Queen Daenerys. Oh, and she always wears this one necklace with a Targaryen dragon charm, and I’ve got this, too.”

He suddenly started fiddling with something on his waist, but before anyone could question him about it, he had unbuckled his sword belt and dropped it and his scabbard on top of the table.

“Look at the scabbard, your grace! It’s the Targaryen emblem! And if that’s not enough proof, then take a look at my eyes!”

The boy hopped down from his chair. He tried crossing the room to approach her, but before he took more than a few steps away from the table, he suddenly shook his head in a slight daze before tilting over. Hizdahr was the closest to him and quickly tried standing to catch him, but the wolf was faster. Quick as a flash, the beast went from lying on the ground to standing in front of the boy as Torrhen accidentally toppled on top of him. If he hurt the wolf, the wolf made no sign of it. He just wagged his tail and let the boy take as much time as he needed to stand upright again.

Dany briskly crossed the room to help Torrhen rise. There was no need for the boy to hurt himself by getting dizzy while walking right now. “Thank you,” he muttered, nearly leaning into her as he tried to find his balance. Nodding in return, she helped the boy back into his chair, then promptly turned to pick up his scabbard.

“The emblem you mentioned, where is it?”

“Look near the top. It’s close to where my sword pommel sticks out.”

Her advisers all promptly gathered around, Grey Worm moving slightly slower than the others even with Missandei’s help. Dany was only half-aware of them, though. Her gaze was focused solely on the leather in her hands as her eyes swept across the scabbard. Sure enough, she soon spotted it — a clumsily sewn three-headed dragon in shiny red thread right near the top of the scabbard.

“May I, your grace?” Barristan asked, his brows rising. Dany nodded, passing it to him without a word. “Extraordinary,” he murmured, fingers lightly tracing over the sigil, “I’ll admit that I hadn’t even noticed this when I first saw him out in the market. It’s only further proof, my queen.”

“Perhaps,” Missandei said skeptically, “but perhaps not. Anyone who knows how to thread a needle could’ve easily sewn that onto this scabbard.”

“Yes, I agree,” said the queen neutrally. “Do you mind if I check your eyes, Torrhen?”

He shook his head. “Go right ahead. I’m not lying, I swear! My eyes really are violet!”

Bending down a bit, she gently took Torrhen’s chin between her fingers and tilted his head toward her as she peered intensely into his eyes. Sadly, it was impossible for her to make an accurate guess on what his eye color was. Between the room being cloaked in darkness from the drapes and his pupils still being somewhat dilated from his head injury, it was anyone’s guess as to what color his eyes naturally were.

“You can tell, right?” he asked, smiling hopefully. “You see they’re really violet!”

The queen bit her lip as she released his chin and took a step back. “Actually, I’m unable to verify what you say right now,” she declared. “Your head injury has made your pupils dilated, and I can’t tell their proper coloring, especially not when the room is this dark.”

“Oh,” he frowned. “Then… Then you’ll be able to tell what they are when I’m better, right?”

Her stomach twisted uneasily. She didn’t want to hurt this boys’ feelings, but still… “I suppose I could, but even if I did confirm that your eyes truly are Targaryen violet when you recover, that really isn’t much proof whatsoever, even with your scabbard.”

The boy stared at her for several moments, shocked. “You… You don’t believe me?!”

She sighed. “Well, I—”

He shook his head, disgusted. “I don’t believe this… I’ve been starving on the streets for two months just to get here and talk to you because I hoped you’d be overjoyed to meet me… but when I get here I find out you agree with that fucker with the goatee!”

“What did you—?!”

“I’ve been wasting my time, haven’t I?! I should’ve just hopped on the first boat sailing back to Westeros the day that asshole had me thrown out on the streets! Good luck with your endeavors, Queen Daenerys! Shadow and I won’t bother you ever again! Let’s go, bud!”

Shooting all of them a dirty look, Torrhen hopped down from his chair and tried to encourage his wolf to follow him, but the boy easily got dizzy again. Were it not for the queen standing right before him, he easily would have toppled over. Still, he tried to shove himself away from Dany and storm out, but Dany easily caught his shoulder.

“I never said that I _don_ _’t_ believe you, Torrhen Snow, just as I never said that I _do._ _”_

Everyone became very quiet as they glanced curiously at the Dragon Queen, but Dany ignored them. Her sole focus was on Torrhen, and Torrhen alone. The boy looked utterly baffled by her response. “What? What d’you mean?”

She smiled, gesturing politely for him to sit back down. “Take a seat, please, before you fall down and hurt yourself even more.” He blinked at her, but still did as she asked. Sliding back into her own chair, she made sure to keep her face fixed in a neutral look as she studied him for any signs of duplicity. There didn’t appear to be any outward signs that he was lying, but for all she knew, the boy was simply an excellent liar. “I’m sorry for all the hardships you’ve endured here in Meereen, young man. Especially if they only happened because Captain Naharis didn’t allow you to meet me when you first arrived.”

Daario gaped. “Queen Daenerys—”

She held him a hand, not even sparing him a glance. “If you’ve been left starving, I’m truly sorry. However… I also cannot blame Captain Naharis for not believing you.” Daario perked up at that, but Torrhen furrowed his brows, looking extremely puzzled. “It’s odd that the sister you claim looks more Targaryen-like between you both is not here at this time, nor is this supposed-dragon you mentioned. Moreover, it’s even more suspicious that the only Targaryen trait you claim to possess is impossible to confirm at this time because of your head injury. That scabbard over there? Anyone could have sewn that emblem onto it, so I can’t consider it genuine proof. I don’t mean to be rude to you, Torrhen Snow, but you have to understand why I’m reluctant to believe you. I’m not claiming your lying, but I’m not saying I think you’re telling the truth, either.”

Barristan frowned at her, but her other advisers all nodded in quiet agreement. Dany hated to disappoint her loyal knight, but she couldn’t blindly believe him about this. If Barristan was correct about the boy being somehow related to her, then she would be overjoyed and would thank him and Grey Worm for protecting him during that Harpy attack. But if Barristan was wrong… she wouldn’t hold this mistake against him, as she knew how profoundly loyal he was to her cause, but the boy wouldn’t be able to stay here. She’d give him some provisions to take care of himself and see to it that he was placed with a good family here in Meereen. She wouldn’t blame a child this young for just trying to get a better life for himself, but she couldn’t house a liar in her court over a matter such as this.

Torrhen stared at her for a long moment, then sighed irritably. “What can I do to convince you, then?” he asked.

“You could start by providing some more details about why your sister and this dragon you mentioned are now with you, as well as explain who your parents are.”

The boy tensed a bit, then sighed again as he looked away. “Lyaella and I never had parents,” he mumbled, turning to pet his wolf. Shadow whined slightly, tail wagging as he scratched him behind the ears. “They both died when we were babies. We were raised by the Bitch of the North and our other Northern relatives.”

Dany blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. _“Don’t_ ask me to be respectful on this, your grace. Mine and Lya’s relatives are the cruelest, most twisted people you could ever meet. They did everything they could to squash out our Targaryen heritage.”

“Come now,” Missandei gently interjected. “I’m sure that’s not—”

“No, I _know_ what I’m talking about, here. None of you are allowed to defend them either. They’re the ones who deliberately plotted to get our parents killed, after all!”

Nobody said anything to that, not even Daario. Dany just exchanged wide-eyed looks with each of her councilors, not even sure what to think about that revelation.

Torrhen shook his head bitterly, disgusted by whoever his relatives were. “My relatives are monsters, your grace. Lyaella and I both know they’d rather see the world burn down to ashes then let House Targaryen rise again. Were it up to them, Sōnar would be dead, too.”

Dany’s mind was reeling. It was clear by how angry and bitter Torrhen was that he wasn’t lying at least about his relatives being cruel, but there was a loophole in what he was saying. A fairly big one, too. “I believe you when you say you’re relatives aren’t fond of House Targaryen, but if they were trying to stamp out your Valyrian heritage, then your story doesn’t make sense.”

He blinked at her, visibly puzzled. “What? I don’t understand what you mean.”

She frowned, her skepticism only growing. “If your relatives didn’t want you or your sister to embrace the Targaryen side of your parentage, then why would either of you have a dragon? Why are you allowed to walk around with the Targaryen symbol on your sword scabbard while your sister has a Targaryen emblem necklace?”

For the first time, the boy froze as though caught in a lie. He didn’t answer her right away at first, either. Instead, he just stared at her, looking completely lost for words. His direwolf nudged him with the top of his head, whining to get his attention, but his master ignored him. He didn’t even seem to know how to answer this question.

“I… Well… The thing is…” Torrhen bit his lip, shaking his head lightly with every failed attempt to speak.

Dany’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps she’d been right to be skeptical. If he were truly honest, a question like this shouldn’t have caught him off guard. “I’m waiting for an explanation,” she declared. “If you can’t answer this, I’ll assume you’re lying about everything.”

Torrhen sighed. “I’m _not_ lying, your grace,” he bitterly mumbled, softly running his fingers through Shadow’s thick fur. “I’m just… well, my sister and I got some money from our relatives for our seventh nameday. They told us we could spend it however we wanted so we could get ourselves a gift we actually wanted. I wanted a new scabbard for my training sword, and Lyaella wanted a silver necklace. The thing is… our relatives never specified that we weren’t allowed to add certain details on our stuff. Lyaella sewed the emblem on there,” he said, pointing directly to the sigil on his scabbard. “She’s not the best when it comes to sewing, but she does all right. And I spent what was leftover on my savings to pay for the silversmith to turn her silver pendant into the Targaryen emblem. I _know_ I paid three times what he’d normally charge for such work and I got ripped off, but it was worth it! She was so happy to have that detail added onto it, and I was thrilled by how she personalized my scabbard. They were nice presents we gave each other.”

She silently considered this. It was a bit of a stretch was he was saying, but it still seemed somewhat plausible…

“That doesn’t explain how the two of you have a dragon, though,” she pointed out, folding her hands together across the table. “I’d like to hear details on that.”

He tensed again, deliberately dragging Shadow’s head onto his lap. “Sōnar’s dragon egg was another nameday present, your grace,” he mumbled, staring directly at his wolf instead of her.

Hizdahr furrowed his brows, confused. “That makes no sense. If your relatives didn’t want either of you to embrace your Targaryen heritage, then why—”

“Her egg _wasn_ _’t_ a present from our relatives. It was a gift from one of the few people we’ve met that actually treat like us like people instead of monsters,” he spat. “But don’t expect to hear any more than that.”

Grey Worm lips pressed together in a tight line. “Why not tell—”

“No!” the boy snarled, his temper rising. “I’m not obligated to tell you any more than that, regardless on whether or not your queen believes me!”

Dany glanced around at her advisers. This sudden rage was completely unexpected. It was one thing when he’d been insulting Daario — he’d been annoyed at the most, and was acting more like a whiny child rather than seriously angry. Now, though? Now he looked ready to ignore his concussion and storm out of the room if he could if someone pressed him any further right now. Still, Dany needed to press him further. She needed a legitimate reason as to why she should believe him about this.

“That’s not good enough. I need more specific details at the very least, or else I have no reason to believe you.”

He scowled at her, but for some reason, it seemed to be rather sad instead of angry this time. “I don’t want to talk about this, if you don’t mind, your grace.”

“Why?”

“Because while Sōnar is mine and Lya’s friend and her egg was one of the best nameday presents we ever got… the reason why she hatched is a bad memory. We don’t talk about that day. Not ever.”

The queen didn’t know what to think about this, and could only exchange more tense looks with the rest of her small council. “Your avoidance on this matter is not earning you any favorable points on why I should believe your tale,” she said firmly. “I don’t know what may or may not have happened to you, but can you at least tell me more about this sister of yours, then? Why is she and this dragon not with you?”

He shrugged. “Me and Shadow got separated from them before we even got to Meereen, and to be honest, I don’t think they even made it to Essos at all and they’re still somewhere in the North. Don’t assume I’m lying just because I can’t give you a straight answer on this, either, because it was _not_ our fault we got separated! Were it up to me and Lya, we’d both be here together right now explaining all this! If you wanna blame someone for not having us be together right now, blame the Bitch of the North and our other relatives! It’s _their_ fault!”

“I don’t understand…”

“Lyaella and I _hate_ our relatives, your grace. If you wanted to kill them for the things they’ve done to us and our parents, we wouldn’t help you do it since they still are our relatives, but we wouldn’t stop you either,” he explained. “We’ve been dreaming for years about running away from from them. We finally got the chance to leave for good, so we jumped at the opportunity.”

“You… You both ran away?” Missandei repeated, incredulous.

He earnestly nodded. “Don’t look at me like that! If you were forced to live with the same _monsters_ who had killed your parents, wouldn’t you want to runaway too if you had the chance?”

Missandei fell silent, but Dany didn’t miss how her and Grey Worm met each other’s gazes at his question. As former slaves who’d been made into property by the former masters, they knew the answer to that question better than anyone, and not even Dany could criticize this boy on his viewpoint. This was part of the reason why she was fighting to end slavery throughout all of Slaver’s Bay, after all.

“I’ll take your silence as a ‘yes.’ Anyway, Lya and I had a chance to run, so we took it. Problem was, we didn’t anticipate on our relatives finding out about it. I don’t know how they found out, but they did, and they tried stopping us.”

“And that’s how you both got separated?” Barristan asked. “You got away, but your sister didn’t?”

Torrhen considered his question, then hesitantly shrugged. “I’m honestly not sure where Lyaella or Sōnar are right now, but I think they’re still somewhere back in the North, just not with our relatives. If there’s one thing you _must_ believe me about, it’s that. Lyaella would never stay with our relatives if I wasn’t with her. Trust me when on that, if nothing else.”

Silence reigned throughout the council chambers as everyone slowly turned to look at her, but Dany didn’t meet anyone’s gazes. She wasn’t sure what to think after hearing all this. In terms of believing she wasn’t alone anymore as the very last of House Targaryen, her mind was pulling her in two separate directions, one side desperately wanting to believe this boy, while the other was demanding her to be wary and skeptical of his tale. What was she supposed to say to all of this? Was being skeptical a sign that she was being a smart queen, or overly paranoid?

Moreover, was the main reason why she was reluctant to believe him because she couldn’t help but imagine what Rhaego would’ve been like if he’d lived to be close to Torrhen’s age?

She thickly swallowed, pushing the thought as far away from herself as she could. She couldn’t dwell on that. Should she linger on his memory for too long, she’d drown in her sorrow. She had to forget that time in her life. She closed her eyes briefly to gather her strength, and by the time she opened them again, she had regained her queenly mask of neutrality.

“Well, Torrhen Snow,” she declared, “I’m still not sure what to make of your story, but in the meantime you are more than welcome to stay here in the Great Pyramid. Consider it my way of thanking you for helping save the lives of Ser Barristan and Commander Grey Worm when the Sons of the Harpy attacked.”

That made him perk up. He seemed genuinely surprised. “Really? You’ll let me stay?”

“Certainly. Until I know for sure whether or not your story is true, I cannot in good conscious send you away.”

“Your grace?” Ser Barristan chimed in. “If it’s all right with you, I’d be happy to have the boy apprentice under me as my squire.”

“Really? You wouldn’t mind?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I saw for myself he’s good with a sword, if only inexperienced in fighting for real. If you don’t mind and you, Torrhen, are interested, I’d be happy to train you.”

Dany had nothing against the idea and merely looked to the boy to see if he was all right with it. If anything, Torrhen seemed excited by the prospect.

“You really wish to train me, Ser Barristan? Truly?”

“Absolutely.”

“Wow! I can’t believe I’m gonna be your squire! I mean… you’re Barristan the Bold! This is a tremendous honor, ser! Thank you!”

Barristan chuckled. “I’m glad you approve of the idea, but for now, consider your first task to be focusing on getting better. I’ll call over another guard and have them escort you back to your solar from before while someone else fetches the maester from earlier.”

“What? But can’t I—”

He held up a hand, silencing the boys’ protests on the spot. “Until you’re fully healed, it’s too risky to train or give your other tasks to carry out. When you’re better, we can work together then, all right?”

Torrhen sighed, but still nodded in understanding. “All right…”

“Good.”

Waving over one of the Unsullied guards standing on the sidelines, Barristan politely requested that they escort the boy and his wolf back to the guest chamber, and after only a quick delay in which the boy insisted on bowing politely to Dany one last time, he followed the soldier out, his direwolf right on his heels as he went.

Everyone waited until he was gone before they immediately rounded on their queen.

“Your grace!”

“You believe me now, right?”

“Daario was correct, your grace. He must be lying!”

“He’s only a child! Even if he’s lying, I doubt he means any real harm!”

“My queen, what you think of him?”

Everyone was throwing out their thoughts so fast, Dany couldn’t even keep up with them. She couldn’t even get her own thoughts in order, let alone listen to anyone else’s. She held up a hand to call for silence. “Enough! All of you!” she demanded. Gradually, her councilors hushed themselves and waited in obedient silence as she absorbed everything that had just transpired. Finally, she inhaled deeply and rounded on Daario. “Captain Naharis, explain to me right now why you did not escort that boy and his wolf to me when he first arrived here at the Great Pyramid.”

Daario shifted, clearly not expecting her sudden anger. “My queen, I thought you said you didn’t believe that boy’s story?”

Her eyes narrowed into thin slits as she stared him down. “That is not your concern, _Captain Naharis,_ nor is that the answer that I seek. Tell me now why you did not have Torrhen Snow and his direwolf brought before me when he first tried to meet me here during a court session.”

He tensed, not accustomed to being on teh receiving end of his queen’s anger. “Y-Your grace—”

“Choose your words very carefully. I am _not_ in a mood to be trifled with, I hope you know.”

He seemed to pick up on the seriousness behind her words and quickly nodded. “Right, well… I honestly don’t believe he’s telling the truth, my queen. I-I-I mean, you saw him. He doesn’t look like a Targaryen at first glance at all!”

“Perhaps not, but still… you didn’t think to bring him before me so I could judge for myself?”

“My queen, had you’d seen how he was acting out there in the reception hall, you wouldn’t have wanted to speak to him at all! He was demanding to see you even after you had us close the court early for the day and compensate everyone with extra food rations for needing to turn them away! Seriously, he acted like a spoiled little shit! I thought I was doing you a favor!”

She pursed her lips, unwilling to let the brief flicker of concern show on her face. “Regardless, I am very disappointed in you. If someone were to _ever_ claim to somehow be related to me, I would expect my council members to bring him or her before me immediately. I’ve gone too long believing I’m the sole hope for my House and restoring House Targaryen to its former glory. That there could be others out there that are directly related to me…” she turned away, trying to reign in her emotions. It took her a moment, but finally she shook her head, and fixed Daario with a piercing gaze. “Go join the rest of your men in the streets.”

Daario blinked. “My queen?”

“You are to join the rest of the Second Sons in passing out provisions and rations to everyone on the streets from dawn to dusk until further notice.”

“What?! But — But my queen —”

“You dare question my orders? Go. _Now._ _”_

Silence spread across the council chambers, no one daring to so much as breathe loudly. There was no mistaking the anger radiating off their queen at that moment. Dany wasn’t just angry, she was furious with the leader of her sellswords. To risk disobeying her right then was to risk the waking the full rage of the dragon. Daario still looked like he wanted to protest, but he had enough brains to realize that this was not the time to plead his case further. Swallowing his pride, he stiffly bowed and left the room without another word.

Dany waited until he was gone before letting her queenly mask drop. She sighed heavily, rubbing her temples. “What a mess… What a mess he made… Had he only brought that boy to me the moment he first came here, perhaps that child wouldn’t have been so bitter right now…”

“Your grace, I don’t mean to side with Captain Naharis right now, especially since you have every right to be angry with him,” Hizdahr hesitantly began. “But are you certain you should trust that boy? He’s appeared out of nowhere, and his story has so many holes in it… You don’t honestly believe he could really be related to you somehow, do you?”

“I don’t know what to believe right now, Hizdahr,” she said, exasperated. “I know I promised that we would discuss the rebuilding project in further detail later… but with all possible respect I can give, may we postpone that discussion until tomorrow? I have a great deal to consider now regarding that child.”

He politely bowed. “Of course, my queen. I completely understand. I shall return first thing tomorrow and we can discuss the status of Meereen then.”

“Thank you, Hizdahr. Could you please see him out, Missandei?”

“At once, your grace.”

Curtsying politely to Dany, Missandei briskly led the nobleman out of the chamber, leaving the queen alone with Barristan and Grey Worm.

“My queen,” said Grey Worm thickly. “I tell you… Unsullied knew nothing about boy’s story. If… If any did, they not tell me. I swear I would tell you if I’d _suspected—_ _”_

“It’s all right, Grey Worm. I believe you,” she assured him. “I hold no anger towards you or your men. My anger right now is directed solely at _Captain Naharis_ and the Second Sons. If anything, I’m grateful that you and Ser Barristan brought that boy here instead of taking him to a sickhouse.”

“It no trouble, my queen.”

“Your grace, I understand why you’re… _hesitant_ to blindly believe this boy’s story,” Barristan politely cut in, “but I swear to you on the soul of your late brother Rhaegar, I am thoroughly convinced he is somehow related to you.”

“Truly, Ser Barristan?”

“Absolutely, my queen. I swear to you, those boys eyes are the exact same shade of violet as your own, and I doubt that Torrhen himself is aware of this, but he has an uncanny resemblance to your eldest brother, his hair simply being black instead of silver. Not to mention what he was even doing when I first met him…”

Dany raised a brow, intrigued. “Go on, please. What was that boy up to when you first saw him?”

The knight prepared to answer her, but then stopped, considering her request. “With all due respect, your grace, may I speak to that boy a bit more before I explain that further? I’m not trying to hide anything from you, I just want to see how plausible his story really is by finding out if Torrhen himself is even aware of this similarity.”

She nodded. “Very well, but please make sure to share his answer with me later. I too wish to judge him in discovering if he’s telling the truth or not.”

“Certainly, your grace.”

“My queen,” said Grey Worm, “I think like you about boy. I don’t know what to think of his story, but if he’s just looking for better life, let him stay. I know what happens to children alone on streets of Essos. With Sons of Harpy’s around, they might take him, sell him to slavers. That boy’s young enough to become proper slave.”

Her anger bristled at the very thought. “I have no intention of abandoning that orphaned child that young back on the streets, especially not when the Sons of the Harpy are still at large,” she reassured him. “If he’s lying though… I’ll see to it that he’s placed with a good family here in Meereen. I can’t have him stay here if he’s lying about being related to me, that would set a bad precedent… but I won’t just throw him out either. He’s only a child.”

Barristan and Grey Worm both nodded in agreement. That was fair and understandable in their eyes, and their queen was right. It’d be one thing if someone close to Dany’s age suddenly appeared out of the blue claiming to be a long-lost Targaryen relative — that person would most likely be trying to compete with their queen for her claim to the Iron Throne — but Torrhen was only a boy. A boy that had been literally starving on the streets and had only wanted to meet the legendary Dragon Queen. He wasn’t a threat to any of them, nor did he appear to have any desire to be a threat. That he claimed to have a missing sister with a dragon out there somewhere was shocking, but at the moment, he seemed harmless.

“Is there anything else we can do for you, your grace?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you, Ser Barristan. You and Grey Worm may both take your leave, and please do rest, Grey Worm. I’d hate for you to further injure yourself.”

The two nodded and took their leave. At last, she was alone.

Dany sighed and moved aside one of the curtains to step out onto the balcony. That young boy had been such an unexpected interruption in her life, and she wasn’t sure whether to think of him as a blessing or a curse due to her uncertainty regarding his story. If he was telling the truth, she was overjoyed. She wasn’t alone anymore, and in addition to him, there was one more Targaryen child out in the world too, a little girl. Though if he was lying… her heart ached at the thought for getting her hopes up, and she couldn’t help but clutch the fabric of her dress over her heart as she stared out over the city. If he was lying, she wouldn’t let him stay in the Great Pyramid. She would forgive him considering he was just a child and probably desperate to get off the streets, but he wouldn’t be permitted to stay. She wouldn’t be able to handle looking at him every day and being reminded each and every time of her precious little Rhaego when she looked into his face if he turned out to be a liar.

Rhaego… he would have had dark hair and violet eyes too, judging by that one vision she’d seen of him in the House of the Undying, but what would he have been like as a person? Short-tempered with a runaway tongue like young Torrhen Snow, or gruff on the outside while secretly gentle and caring on the inside like her dearly departed sun and stars? What would life be like for her today had her son and Drogo had lived…?

She jolted at that thought, and clutched the balcony railing even tighter between her fists. No, she mustn’t think about such things. She knew her mantra on how to endure her painful past: _If I look back, I am lost._ She could not dwell on her mistakes from before. To remember such horrible memories was to risk losing herself to them now and forever.

Steeling herself with her fresh resolve, Dany closed her eyes for one brief moment as she gave into the pain, and as soon as she opened them again, she locked it away into the furthest depths of her memories and headed back inside. Whatever the case was with young Torrhen Snow, whether he was telling the truth or lying about being a Targaryen bastard, she must always remember to act appropriately as a queen around him — kind and regally polite, but never too open. It was the only way she could protect her heart in the event that he _is_ lying.

Because she knew herself too well. To lose another little boy the same way she lost her sweet Rhaego would destroy her.


	11. When a Dragon Feels Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE! PLEASE READ!
> 
> Hello, again! We've made it to Chapter Eleven, people! And we're tapping back into Lyaella and Jon at the Wall! :D
> 
> I'd like to give a big thank you and shout out and thank you to Longclaw 1-6 and GreedofRage for helping me with a few outlining problems I had with this chapter. You think it looks long now? It was originally going to be slightly longer in the initial outline, but they pointed some places where I could easily cut out stuff to shrink it down. Thanks, guys! ;D
> 
> I'd like to say right now first and foremost that this chapter is unedited as I need to get it online ASAP for reasons stated in the paragraph below, and the chapter title is a work in progress. There's a good chance I might change it later.
> 
> I wanna keep this message short and to the point, so I'll skip straight to the important announcement - I'm going to be slowing down my writing for a little while. It's going to be May next month, and you know what May means for artists? MerMay! I've decided to take part in the month-long mermaid art event by drawing some loose sketches of mermaid characters. I'm doing the official prompt, though. I have a loose idea on how to tell a daily one drawing per day story regarding a mermaid and human boy falling in love. Depending on how much I do and how inspired I get with the characters, I might even expand on this idea after MerMay is done by making them into a webcomic. My ideas are rather raw for now regarding an eventual comic, but I want to do this. I need to become a faster artist anyway if I'm ever going to get a job as an animator one day when this whole COVID-19 pandemic blows over. Plus, you wanna know what I've been procrastinating on because I've been so busy writing? Writing the next draft of my screenplay and finishing digitizing my art portfolio online! I've gotta do these things, especially since I'm here at home with plenty of free time right now! I'm sorry to leave you guys hanging, but my eventual career comes first! I promise to still do a bit of writing on this story every day, but it won't be a priority anymore... or at least not until after May. Maybe if I'm lucky I can get out another chapter sometime next month, but no promises! I've gotta make these other things a priority instead. At least for a little while. After a full month of three great updates on this story, I don't think it's too much to ask you all to be patient for a little while, right? I hope you all understand!
> 
> Now, onto the story stats! There's been 380 kudos, 103 bookmarks, 9160 views, and we made it to the comment goal yet again! 209 comments! Hooray! I'm so happy! Perhaps we can make this next goal even bigger considering I'm going to take a small break? I'm going to cross my fingers and hope we make it to 230 this time! Come on, you guys can do it! Strive for 230 over this next month while I do my art projects! Tell yourselves to believe you can do it, and you can! LOL!
> 
> That's all for now! I hope you all enjoy the chapter, and please comment when you're done!
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> \- Elphaba818

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”

“I am. I swore a sacred vow at the godswood. I pledged my life and honor to the Night’s Watch.”

“I’m offering you the chance to avenge your family. To take back Winterfell and rule the North.”

“I’m sorry, your grace. My place is here.”

The new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch could only assume the Baratheon king was disappointed by his decision judging by how tight his expression became. Truth be told, Jon was disappointed himself that he couldn’t accept Stannis’ offer. All his life, he had dreamed of being a Stark, for his father to write to the king and request for him to be legitimized. To be considered his real son like Robb, Bran, and Rickon… it was the only thing he’d ever wanted as a boy. And now, to be given the opportunity to become a Stark and avenge his family from those who’d taken everything from them was more than he could have dreamed of. To turn Stannis down was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

But he had no choice. He was sworn to the Night’s Watch. He was the newly elected Lord Commander. To take the kings’ offer would mean breaking his vows once and for all, and he couldn’t do that. Other than when he’d had a momentary lapse of judgment and nearly rode off to join Robb in his war, Yggrite was the only one who made him seriously consider turning his back on his brothers. But she was gone now. His father was gone. Uncle Benjen was gone. Robb was gone. And truth be told, the rest of his siblings were probably gone, too. They were either dead by now, or they obviously didn’t care about him enough to come looking for him. It didn’t matter that he was sworn to his vows of the Watch. If he knew for a fact that any of them were still alive and waiting for him to save them, he’d drop everything to rescue them. But there was no sign of his brothers or sisters anywhere. He was the last of his family, and because of that, he had to uphold the values of their dead father more than anything. To forget his honor would mean betraying every value that Ned Stark taught him.

“You’re as stubborn as your father, Jon Snow,” Stannis sighed. “And as honorable.”

“I can think of no higher praise.”

“I didn’t mean it as praise. Honor got your father killed, but if your mind’s made up, I won’t try to dissuade you.”

Jon nodded curtly. “May I ask, your grace, how long you intend to stay at Castle Black?”

Stannis’ eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to throw us out? After how my army saved the Night’s Watch from Mance Rayder?”

Jon tensed. “That was not my intent, your grace. We will never forget what you’ve done for us. I only ask because it’s a question of survival. The Night’s Watch can’t continue feeding and housing your men and the Free Folk prisoners indefinitely.”

His expression mollified, nodding in understanding. “Ah, right. Basic provisions are always the bane of military command. Rations must be growing scarce between providing for your men, mine, the Wildlings, and a growing dragon.”

“Aye, your grace.”

“Well, don’t worry. My men will be marching to Winterfell fairly soon. As the Wildlings don’t wish to be part of my army, they’re yours to deal with as you see fit. Execute them, see if that Tormund fellow is more willing to negotiate… You’re Lord Commander, now. Your decision.”

“Wise counsel, your grace. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“I must ask though… what are your plans regarding the Targaryen child?”

He stiffened. “Lyaella, you mean?”

Stannis nodded. “Yes. Have you made a decision on what to do about her and her dragon?”

Jon pressed his lips together, willing himself to not show any emotions. He should have anticipated Stannis inquiring about Lyaella. The stag king had honored his word and done nothing against the little girl since she’d appeared at the Wall, but he hadn’t made it a secret that he wanted the Night’s Watch to turn her over to him, either. And due to Thorne and Maester Aemon convincing everyone that the best course of action regarding how to handle the girls’ presence here at the Wall was to let the next Lord Commander decide what to do about her, her fate now rested in his hands. The wrong hands, really. He had no idea whatsoever on what to do about Lyaella Snow.

“Why do you ask, your grace?” he said finally. “Do you wish for me to release them to you?”

“I won’t deny it. Yes, I do.”

His stomach twisted at the admission. “Then surely you understand why I’m reluctant to do so, your grace,” Jon countered, mouth going dry. “Lyaella might be somehow related to House Targaryen and has a dragon, but she’s still just a child. She’s done nothing against you and it would be wrong to execute her.”

To his surprise, Stannis shook his head. “I recognize that. I’ve had my men pay close attention to that girl and her dragon throughout the entirety of my time here. After listening to their observations, I’ve come to believe that were it not for her dragon, she’d be less of a threat to me than that bastard boy sitting on the Iron Throne now, regardless of her lineage. She’s a smart girl, no doubt about that considering how careful she is to never talk too much about who her relatives are or where she came from, but she’s too shy. Too skittish. Ignorant of how the world really works. I’m no fool, Jon Snow, and executing her would be the stupidest thing I could do. It’d only portray me as a murderous monster.”

He blinked at the king, puzzled. “Then… what do you want with her? If you don’t wish to kill her, then…?”

Stannis’ face remained expressionless, but Jon didn’t know any better, he could have sworn he saw the faintest trace of an amused smile in the kings eyes. “For starters, I want the opportunity to speak with her. Privately, with only my advisers present.”

“Your grace?”

“I request the opportunity to speak to her alone. Were it not the fact that that girl is currently a guest of the Night’s Watch and therefore under your protection, I’d just send Ser Davos or Lady Melisandre to go fetch her and bring her here. As she’s your guest, I must ask it of you first.”

Jon furrowed his brows. “Why do you want to talk to her? I doubt she’ll be anymore open with you or your people regarding wherever she came from than anyone else has so far.”

“Regardless, I have my own questions for that child, and now that she’s not crying every few minutes like she was that day in the Main Hall, I intend to ask her again. If nothing else, I wish to see what type of girl my daughter Shireen speaks so highly of and has befriended.”

There was a brief pause, then Jon finally nodded. “Very well, I’ll go find her, your grace, but don’t give her the impression that I’ve officially decided to turn her over to you, because I haven’t yet.”

“Agreed.”

Rising at once from the chair to his desk, Jon bowed respectfully to the Baratheon king claimant and headed to the door.

* * *

“Come on, you know this one.”

“I… I can’t remember…”

“This is an easy one, Gilly. D-Do you remember… remember the memory game we made up?”

“Aye.”

“Then remember w-what we told you before? What does it remind you of?”

“Well, it curves up and down like a snake.”

“Right, and then remember what else we told you?”

“Snake… it starts with the same letter as your last name, Lyaella…”

“Mm-hmm. I’m L-Lyaella ‘Snow.’”

“Try to remember. I know you can.”

“It’s… It’s… Oh, it’s an ‘s!’”

Eager clapping and cheerful giggling. “Yes! Y-You did it! Great job, Gil— ah!”

“Careful, Lyaella! I need you to stay still!”

“Y-Yes, I know. Sorry, Shireen…”

Shireen smiled, releasing the ruined partial side braid she’d been attempting to weave into Lyaella’s silver tresses. “I’ll have to start over now. It got all lumpy.”

Lyaella smiled, but it was clear by her furrowed brows that it didn’t reach her eyes. Shifting about uncertainly for a moment, she soon sat still in her chair. “Okay… but again, I’m still not sure h-how I feel about this.”

“It’s only a braid, Lyaella. A small one on the side,” said Shireen, starting over. “Just a little something for you to do with your hair. It’ll look pretty, I promise!”

“I’m sure it will, but I’ve always b-been against putting braids in my hair.”

“Really?” Shireen blinked, fingers stilling. “How come?”

Lyaella idly toyed with the edges of her pendant, doing her best to keep her head still. “W-Well, because of Daenerys Targaryen…”

“Oh?”

“Daenerys Targaryen…” Gilly repeated, glancing up curiously at her two teachers from the Castle Black library book she’d been practicing reading from. “I think I heard Sam talkin’ about her to Maester Aemon once. She’s all the way across the… the Slender Sea, right?”

Shireen nodded, resuming her braiding. “The Narrow Sea, but yes. My father’s heard rumors that she’s become the Queen of Meereen, in Essos.”

“I’ve heard the same,” Lyaella agreed, smiling wistfully as she recalled all the stories she’s read about her future mother’s regime as queen in Slaver’s Bay. “They call her the M-Mother of Dragons, and the Breaker of Chains.”

Gilly only looked further confused. “Meereen? Essos?”

“Essos is the e-eastern continent across the Narrow Sea. Meereen is a city there.”

“And why do they call her Mother of Dragons? Breaker of Chains?”

Lyaella beamed. “They say she w-walked into a burning pyre with t-three dragon eggs… and when the flames burned out, she emerged from it unharmed! M-More importantly, all three eggs hatched! She became the mother to three baby dragons!”

Gilly gaped. “Really? There are more dragons out there aside from yers, Lyaella?”

“Uh-huh, hers are—”

“Lyaella, don’t move your head! No nodding, please!”

“Oh, s-sorry, Shireen… Anyway, Gilly, they say she has a a black dragon, a g-green dragon, and a white one, too.”

“Like yer dragon?”

Lyaella shrugged. “I’m not sure, really. W-White is Sōnar’s main color, but take another look at her when we go outside. You’ll notice she’s g-got bits of blue mixed in with her white scales.” It had taken Lyaella awhile, but she finally felt comfortable enough around the people of Castle Black now to stop having her dragon follow her everywhere. Aside from when she slept at night, her dragon preferred to stay outside nowadays, enjoying the fresh air and her newfound freedom. After so many years locked inside her pen in the Winterfell kennels at Queen Sansa’s insistence, Lyaella knew her dragon loved being able to stretch her wings and fly whenever she wanted. She never went far, always making sure to stay within shouting distance in case her mistress needed her. The sight of the white and blue dragon circling back and forth across the Wall was now a common occurrence to the residents of Castle Black. “I d-don’t know if the Dragon’s Queen’s white dragon has any… any extra colors mixed in.”

“There’s also tales about how she’s taken it upon herself to end the slave trade in Essos,” Shireen added. “She’s breaking the chains of human oppression, that’s why people call her the Breaker of Chains.”

“She’s an amazing woman, Daenerys Targaryen. I-I-I hope can meet her one day…” It didn’t matter what anyone said back in her timeline — Lyaella knew her mother had been a good person. She helped so many people by trying to end slavery… and all people in Westeros chose to remember her for was her one mistake in burning down King’s Landing.

“Oh, I see,” said the former-Wildling woman, amazed. But to Lyaella and Shireen’s surprise, her expression slowly fell. “I’m sorry I don’t stuff. I don’t mean to bother yeh both by explainin’ this to me.”

“It’s all right, r-really,” Lyaella assured her, smiling warmly. “We don’t mind.”

“I feel bad, though. Yer both even takin’ time out to teach me to read…”

“Don’t feel bad. It’s our… our pleasure to help.”

Shireen nodded. “Nothing’s meant to come easy, otherwise everyone would be able to do everything. You’ll learn soon, I promise.”

“Are yeh sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. I told you I taught Ser Davos, and old people are terrible at learning new things… And done!” she exclaimed, tying a dark hair tie around the loose end of the small weave with a proud smile. “Your hair looks so pretty now, Lyaella!”

Lyaella shyly smiled, brushing her fingers curiously against the small braid framing the right side of her face. “R-Really?”

Shireen beamed, nodding enthusiastically. “Really, really!”

“I agree,” said Gilly, also smiling. “It looks nice on yeh, Lyaella. Yeh should do another on the other side, Princess Shireen.”

“Good idea, Gilly! You try figuring out the next big letter on that page over there while I do that, then I’ll go find a looking glass so Lyaella can see herself.”

“All right, but do yeh mean this oddly crossed letter here or this one that’s—”

“Oh, n-no, no, Shireen! Please don’t add another one!” Lyaella cut in, frantically shaking her head with a sheepish look. “I… I don’t m-mind you putting this one in for a minute to see how it looks, but I d-don’t deserve lots of braids in my hair!”

“Nonsense, child. You’re a Targaryen, so don’t believe you don’t deserve anything.”

The girls all looked up. Strolling down the stone stairs with a thick tome under his arm was none other than Maester Aemon. Sam was right behind him, and interestingly enough, so was Jon.

“Jon, Maester Aemon,” Lyaella cheered, immediately brightening at the appearance of her future father and uncle. “Good to see you, and y-you as well, Lord Sam.”

Sam chuckled, leading Maester Aemon forward to greet her properly. “Hello, there.”

Jon on the other hand chose to linger back a few steps behind them, nodding awkwardly in return. “Afternoon,” he shortly greeted.

Despite his lack of sight, Maester Aemon smiled down at Lyaella while affectionately patting her shoulder. “I’d say the same, dear, but I’m afraid I can’t see at all. It is good to hear you, though.”

“Oh!” she gasped, reddening. “I’m… I’m s-sorry, I meant no disrespect!”

“’Tis fine, I know you didn’t.”

“You all seem to be having fun. What’re you up to?” Sam asked.

“Lyaella and I were giving Gilly another reading lesson,” said Shireen. “And I was also trying to add a little braid into Lyaella’s hair.”

Sam and Jon both blinked and turned to peer more closely at Lyaella. She squeaked from the attention, flushing bright red as she shyly averted her eyes.

Maester Aemon chuckled, setting down the book as he settled into an open chair nearby. “Reading lessons and hair braiding, you say? That’s very kind of you both.”

“How are the lessons coming, by the way?” Sam asked. “Are you understanding everything all right?”

“Aye, they’re both good teachers,” Gilly assured him. Then oddly enough, her eyes narrowed. “Very patient.”

The portly Night’s Watchmen looked away sheepishly. “W-Well, I told you that the best way to learn is to practice…”

“No, no, don’t worry. Lyaella, Princess Shireen, and I are doin’ just fine on our own, thank yeh,” she said, turning her nose up at the disgraced heir of Horn Hill before pointedly glancing back to the girls. Lyaella couldn’t help but share in a muffled giggle with her new friend when they saw the crestfallen look on Sam’s face. Maester Aemon only smiled kindly as he listened to her, but Jon bit lip, pointedly looking away from everyone to hide his own amusement. “I’m sure yeh must be busy attendin’ to whatever important Night’s Watch duties yeh do for Maester Aemon, but Lyaella and Princess Shireen and I have lots of time on their hands, so they’ve been helpin’ me. And we’re getting alon’ well together. We were just talkin’ about Daenerys Targaryen just now.”

Jon blinked. “The Dragon Queen?”

“Uh-huh,” said Shireen, nodding cheerily. “I was just trying to fix up Lyaella’s hair a bit so she could fix it up in an easy way, but she barely let me make even that one little braid that I made on her now.”

Jon and Sam both blinked, glancing back over at Lyaella curiously. Her cheeks burned even hotter from the attention, and she subconsciously started twirling the little weave by her cheek.

“Huh. I hadn’t even noticed it,” said the Northerner, shrugging away the slight change.

Lyaella’s heart sunk at her future father’s lack of reaction. “Y-You… You didn’t? Is not… It’s not jumping out at you at all?”

“No, not really. Why?”

Her eyes fell, avoiding looking at anyone as as she idly traced over a knot in the wooden tabletop surface. “Nothing. I… I j-just figured people would notice there’s a change, that’s all.”

Jon looked really out of his element, here, but he did his best to maintain his nonchalant expression. “Well, it’s not like it’s that big of a change, really. Not big enough for someone to notice if they’re only half-paying attention. Had you dyed your hair black or brown or even cut it, that’d be much more noticeable.”

She jerked at his words, eyes widening. “What, n-no! I’m not gonna… gonna start dying my hair or cutting it! I like it s-silvery and long!”

He nodded once, gruffly. “All right, then don’t complain. And anyways, I need to—”

A small chuckle from Maester Aemon cut him off. “Forgive me Lord Commander, but you can bring her along with you back out into the courtyard like you said when we bumped into you a moment ago. Allow an old man to talk to her first, then you can take her. All right?

There was a brief pause, but then finally Jon nodded. “Very well, Maester Aemon. But please, try to hurry. I don’t want Stannis getting upset with us.”

“My father?” asked Shireen. “Does he wish to speak to me?”

He shook his head. “No, don’t worry, princess. You can stay.”

“Oh, good!”

“Back to what you were saying before,” said Maester Aemon, “what does my niece across the sea have to do with adding a braid into my new relatives hair?”

“I don’t know. I just asked Lyaella why she never did anything with her hair like adding a braid into and she said it was because of her. We got off topic a bit since we started talking about the Dragon Queen herself, so she never elaborated.”

Everyone turned to Lyaella for a better explanation, but the little girl didn’t look over at them. She stared down silently at her lap, her bangs shadowing her eyes completely. “I… I’m n-not allowed to put braids in my hair. Even if I was, I don’t deserve them.”

Sam cocked his head a bit, muddled. “You weren’t allowed to…? What?”

She twirled her dragon charm on her necklace back and forth between her fingers. Truth or Half-Truth was the only way she could explain this without giving away too much. “Me and Tory always kept… kept an ear open for news on h-her. We were curious about our… our T-Targaryen side.”

“That makes sense,” said Gilly, smiling kindly. “There nothin’ wron’ about wantin’ to know about yer roots.”

Lyaella sighed. With great reluctance, she glanced up at Gilly and sadly shook her head. “N-Not according to my relatives. Aside from basic… basic history l-lessons, they never wanted us to learn too much about our T-Targaryen side. They always got really… really m-mad at us whenever we openly t-talked about it.”

Jon frowned. “Well, your relatives are Northerners, right?” She nodded. “Then you must remember that there’s lots of lingering tension towards House Targaryen among Northerners. They probably had some lingering hatred towards the Mad King.”

“T-To the point that after we accidentally hatched Sōnar and… and played make believe with her in reenacting past T-Targaryen wars, they threw all the Targaryen history b-books into the fire so we wouldn’t play-act past wars with her ever again?”

She didn’t dare look up to see how everyone reacted at that. She just tugged a history book detailing the past war of The Dance of the Dragons closer to her and flipped it open to a random page. Ignoring the wetness gathering in her eyes, she focused on reading. For several moments, no one said anything, but then—

“Your dragon hatched by accident?”

“They really did that?”

“What does any of that have to do with yeh bein’ forbidden from puttin’ braids in yer hair?”

“Your relatives… how did they treat you and your brother?”

“How much do you actually know about the Valyrian side of our blood, my dear?”

Lyaella trembled. She really didn’t want to get into this all that much, but what choice did she have? She still wasn’t all that sure about what to think of Sam, but he’d still been decent to her thus far, and Gilly and Shireen had been very kind, never treating her badly even once. And Jon and Maester Aemon were family, even if her future father didn’t know yet. If she had talk about this to someone, it might as well be with family. Sucking in a breath for strength, she glanced up again.

“Yes to both y-your questions, Shireen, Sam. We… had no idea we were hatching Sōnar when w-we hatched her, and they did do that… I already told you they’re t-terrible people… T-Tory and I were only able to save one book, and we k-keep it hidden… That r-relates to Daenerys Targaryen and me not wearing braids, G-Gilly, because… because we found out she generally w-wears her hair in braids, and m-my aunts didn’t… d-didn’t want me to look like her.”

Shireen, Sam, and Gilly all blinked repeatedly at her rushed answers to their questions, but Lyaella didn’t give them the chance to absorb what she said. She just turned to Jon, looking pointedly down at his knees instead of up at his face. She didn’t want to see his expression as she answered his question.

“I-If you’re asking if our relatives ever… ever hit me or T-Tory, then no. Other p-people did sometimes, but not them. T-They weren’t ever violent until the n-night we had to run. They just… They…” she shook her head, sighing tiredly. “They j-just made it clear how much they didn’t like us. Our eldest aunt? She’s in charge, and… and t-the way she looked down on us all the t-time, never b-being nice… She doesn’t even k-know what the word ‘kindness’ even means… She l-loves herself, and only herself. Then our other aunt?” she added, tone growing bitter. “S-She pretends she cares about family, but t-the truth… the truth is that she could care l-less. The only t-thing she wants to do is r-runaway from everything and kill people. She s-stops by from time to time, but never for too long. She puts on a good mask of c-caring for others… but T-Tory and I know the truth. She’s h-heartless… She wouldn’t leave if she really cared. And then our uncle…”

Lyaella scoffed, rolling her eyes. With great reluctance, she glanced up at Jon. He was wide-eyed, face quite pale.

“H-He’s like a… a living doll. No soul. N-No emotion. We only s-see him once a year, and w-we’re glad about that… He’s creepy. He doesn’t c-care about anything other than s-sitting next to weirwood trees. None of them really care about us. F-Family… Family means nothing to our relatives. They wouldn’t… have done what they d-did to our parents or treated us like that if it did.”

Jon gawked in disbelief. Sam and Gilly exchanged unreadable looks. Shireen’s eyes grew very wet. Maester Aemon frowned. None of them seemed to know what to say to her revelations about her home life.

Sighing bitterly, Lyaella turned to Maester Aemon. She didn’t want to hear any questions or possible words of comfort from any of them regarding her and Torrhen’s miserable life with the Starks. She just wanted to move past it without any comments.

“The only things Torrhen and I know about our Targaryen heritage is what we learn in our basic history lessons. We know the most minimal details ever about our true House, but thanks to reading through some history books here at Castle Black, I’ve come to realize that some of the stuff Torrhen and I know from our lessons we either learned incorrectly, or we were purposefully taught the wrong facts. Other than the one book we managed to save from our relatives, we don’t know all that much at all.”

Her blind uncle gave her a pitying look. “I see… then I suppose it’s safe to say that neither of you were taught the Valyrian language of our House, then?”

“No.”

“This is… surprising, I must say. I thought for sure you both knew it, considering what you named your dragon.”

The others all looked puzzled, but Lyaella managed to squeeze out a sheepish smile. “Sōnar? I know her name’s in High Valyrian, but her name’s a special exception to us not knowing the language.”

“Your dragon’s name is a High Valyrian word?” Sam asked.

Lyaella nodded. “It’s High Valyrian for ‘winter.’ I wanted to name her something wintry when I saw her when she first hatched.” A half-truth. That was indeed part of the reason why she named Sōnar what she did, but the main reason? That she couldn’t tell. “It’s only one of three words we know.”

“What’re the other two? And how do you know those three if no one ever taught you and your brother High Valyrian?” Shireen asked.

“We weren’t officially taught the language, but Tory and I know someone who does know it.” Lord Tyrion in the future, not that she could explain this. “Our relatives wouldn’t let him teach us, but we asked him about what these particular words meant in Valyrian. We know that the word dragonriders of long ago used to make their dragons breathe fire is dracarys. But the other…”

“Yes?”

Lyaella tensed, extremely hesitant. Finally she shook her head, letting her eyes wander off to the side. “I… I can’t. I don’t wanna talk about it…”

Shireen looked puzzled, but Jon, Gilly, and Sam all appeared on edge. Lyaella didn’t understand why her minimal knowledge of the High Valyrian language appeared to worry them so much.

Maester Aemon smiled, however. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I found this, then.” He slid the book he’d brought into the library across the table. “I thought this would simply be a refresher for you, but I suppose it’ll be the first real instruction in the language of our House.”

Lyaella blinked at him, then curiously opened it to a random page. She gaped in wonder when she saw its contents. “High Valyrian…”

“A self-study into reading and speaking the language,” he nodded. “I was going to see how much you knew about our language judging by what you did and didn’t know from this old tome, but now I see I must teach you everything in it.”

“I… I’m sorry to disappoint you, Maester Aemon…”

He shook his head, smiling kindly. “I’m not disappointed, Lyaella. Only surprised. From now on after you join in the daily sword training lessons the Lord Commander gives the new recruits, you’ll join me either down here or in my solar for private language lessons.”

She perked up, surprised. “R-Really? You’ll… You’ll teach me?”

“Of course. Snow or not, every Targaryen should know High Valyrian, and as soon as I find a few more misplaced books that I’ve been looking for, we’ll add those to our lesson repertoire.”

Lyaella smiled. Hopping off her chair, she moved around the table to give him an appreciative hug. “T-Thank you. I’d… I’d like that.”

He chuckled, lightly patting her back before releasing her. “It is no trouble, little one. I’ve been waiting for so long to be able to give guidance to a member of my House again. It’s nice not being alone, anymore.”

Shireen giggled. “Maybe once you’re fluent in High Valyrian, Lyaella, you could try singing and playing your lyre in the ancient language,” she suggested. “I’d love to hear you sing and play.”

She beamed. “Sure, Shireen, but if you want to hear me sing and play, I could go get my lyre now and—”

“That’s Princess Shireen to you, bastard girl.”

Everyone turned. Standing at the foot of the stairs was none other than Selyse Baratheon, her sharp features fixed in a cruel sneer.

Sam and Gilly quickly stood while Jon straightened at attention. Maester Aemon took a few extra seconds to rise, but Shireen and Lyaella stayed rooted in their chairs, both frozen at the sudden appearance of the strict woman.

“Your grace,” said Jon, he, Sam, and Maester Aemon nodding respectfully. Gilly managed to make a nervous curtsy.

“Mother,” said the little doe, rather surprised. “What are you doing here?”

The Baratheon queens’ eyes narrowed. “Looking for you. I knew I’d find you wasting your time here in this dusty old library reading every book you could find… but I’m surprised by your choice of present company.” Lyaella flinched as her attention turned to her. “What are you doing here? I thought my husband sent your fellow bastard Lord Commander to fetch you?”

Lyaella blinked. She glanced up at Jon questioningly. His expression had become quite stiff.

“Aye, the king did, your grace,” he said curtly. “I was just about to inform her of such now.”

“Good, take her out of here, then. And the rest of you leave us, too. I wish to speak to my daughter alone.”

Without a word, the adults all quickly gathered their things and headed to the door, Jon only lingering back as he waited for Lyaella to hug her new book to her chest and hop out of her chair. Pausing only to offer Shireen a small friendly wave goodbye, she clung tightly to Jon’s hand and stayed glued to his side as he pulled her towards the stairs.

“Your grace,” he murmured, bowing his head respectfully as they passed.

Lyaella said nothing as they walked past the strict woman. She just trembled and moved closer to her father as the woman’s eyes stayed fixated on her the whole time. She didn’t dare let go of his hand until they were at the foot of the stairs and let him start climbing up first.

She had just started climbing up behind him when she heard the stag queen’s voice drift into the stairwell. “You need to stay away from those girls.”

Lyaella paused on the stairs, her shoulders trembling. Jon didn’t notice and kept climbing up behind Maester Aemon and the others.

There was the scrape of a chair against the stone floor. “Those girls? You mean Lyaella and Gilly?”

“Of course that’s who I mean!” the queen snapped. “From now on, you are to stay as far away from them as possible! You don’t go anywhere without at least four of your father’s guards accompanying you!”

“Why, Mother?” Lyaella heard Shireen ask, sounding genuinely perplexed and startled by the sudden intensity in her mother’s insistence. “They’ve both very nice. I’ve only been teaching Gilly to read, and Lyaella and I have become very close friends.”

“That woman back there is a Wildling. Your father executed their king, burned him at the stake as an offering for the Lord of Light. They could strike back at him by striking at you.”

“Not Gilly. She wouldn’t do that.”

There was an audible scoff, courtesy of Lady Selyse. “You have no idea what people would do. All your books and you still don’t know. Which is all the more reason you are to stay away from that monstrous child and that… that beast of hers!”

“Wha—? Lyaella?”

Lyaella quivered. Sucking in a deep breath, she crept down a few steps closer to the open archway to hear better.

“Yes,” hissed Selyse. “From now on, you do not look at that girl. You do not speak to her. You will have nothing to do with that… that bastard Snow child. And should I catch you going anywhere near that dragon of hers, I’ll have the books you brought here from Dragonstone thrown into the fire!”

“But… But Mother—”

“No, ‘buts!’ That girl is of Targaryen blood. Had you actually learned something from all those books you’ve read about the dragon house, you’d know that all Targaryen’s are cruel and insane! And you’re a Baratheon. Your father’s staking a claim onto the Iron Throne. The same throne that our House took from House Targaryen! That girl has a dragon! She could hurt your father by setting her dragon on you!”

Her eyes watered, and she quickly covered her mouth with her palm to muffle a sob. Was she really being seen as a danger to everyone just because she had Sōnar with her? She’d never hurt Shireen. Shireen was her friend, the only friend she’d ever had aside from Torrhen, Sōnar, and Shadow. It didn’t matter that she was of House Baratheon. The fact that Shireen was willing to look past the fact that she was both a Targaryen descendant and a girl with a ‘Snow’ surname meant everything to her.

She turned to go, but then—

“Lyaella wouldn’t do that, Mother,” said the princess, her voice surprisingly firm for once. “You’d know that if you were willing to get to know her before saying such cruel things.”

Lyaella blinked as silence lingered in the library. Shireen… she was standing up for her? When was the last time someone had been kind enough to do that for her or Torrhen? People always saw what was on the surface when it came to them, so she wasn’t even sure…

“You… You dare to talk back to me?!” Selyse hissed.

There was a brief pause, but then Shireen continued, her voice still rather firm. “I know I’m a disappointment to you, Mother. I know you hate the fact that I have this—” another slight pause “—on my face… I’ve accepted that. I’ve accepted that you wish I was dead instead of my three stillborn brothers, that’s why I’m never allowed to go anywhere and have to stay indoors all the time back home. But… But I like having a friend. I don’t want to be forced to stay away from the only girl my age I’ve met who doesn’t care about my greyscale.”

Lyaella couldn’t help but smile. She was touched that Shireen valued their friendship just as much as she did. She’d definitely been wrong to be wary of her back she when first arrived at the Wall so long ago. She turned to leave and catch up with Jon before he or the others noticed she was missing.

“That mindset is precisely what gets fools in this world killed! You’re too trusting! If you continue looking at people while only seeing the good in them instead of what they’re capable of, you’ll end up—! Wait, what was that?”

Lyaella froze. Her foot had accidentally slipped on a loose pebble lingering on the steps, and it was now bouncing down noisily down the rest of the stone stairs.

Hurried footsteps rushed to the stairs before Lyaella could do anything, and a moment later, the Baratheon queen’s sneering face poked into the stairwell.

“You! What are you still doing here?!”

Lyaella gulped. “I-I-I… Well, I—”

Selyse shot up the steps, seizing Lyaella’s wrist and dragging back down into the library. Startled, she accidentally dropped the High Valyrian book as she was tugged forward. Shireen gasped when she saw her nervous face.

“Lyaella? I thought you went—”

“Hush, child! You stay there and keep quiet!” Selyse snapped, barely glancing over at her daughter. Her attention was fixated on Lyaella the whole time, and the little girl trembled fearfully under her furious glare. “What were you doing on the stairs?! I thought I told the Lord Commander to take you to my husband!”

“I… I was… I—”

“Were you eavesdropping?! Trying to see if you could find something to exploit from myself or my daughter?!”

“N-No! I-I-I wasn’t! I was… I— Please, l-let go!” Lyaella cried, wincing painfully as Selyse’s fingers squeezed her wrist impossibly hard. “T-That… That hurts!”

“Mother, please!” Shireen begged, rushing around the table and grabbing onto the queen’s cloak. “Let her go!”

“I told you, stay back there and keep quiet!” her mother snapped. “I will deal with your sinful behavior later. As for you—” she rounded back on Lyaella “—you will listen to me, bastard child.”

Lyaella shook from head to toe, all coherent thoughts wiped clean from her mind as the stag queen’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. She bent down to her level to look her right in the eye, gripping her shoulders tightly.

“Listen, and listen well. You are to stay away from my daughter,” she hissed, her fingernails digging painfully into the child’s upper arms. “Were it up to me, you would be dead. Your dragon would be dead. I don’t care where you came from. I don’t care what you think or feel. All I care about is that you stay away from my daughter! You keep that monster of yours away from her! Do not look at her! Do not speak to her! From this moment on, you will have nothing to do with the Princess Shireen of House Baratheon! Do you understand me?!”

The little girl whimpered, both in pain and in terror. She wanted to nod to get the woman to let her go, but she was frozen, unable to move a muscle.

“What, are you deaf?! Do you understand—?!”

“Your grace, I would ask that you let go of the ward of the Night’s Watch, please.”

Jon Snow stood at the foot of the stairs, his stance quite firm yet expression carefully neutral.

Lyaella’s heart leapt. Her father. He was protecting her. There were indeed gods out there listening to people’s prayers. Quick as a flash, she frantically tugged herself away from Queen Selyse and scampered up to him. Thank goodness he came when he did.

Selyse’s inhaled slowly as she straightened up, her rage radiating off her quite plainly. “Lord Commander,” she spat.

Jon stiffly nodded, gently nudging Lyaella behind him a bit without breaking his gaze with the older woman. “I apologize for not keeping her at my side while we were leaving. That was a mistake on my part,” he said, “but I will not tolerate anyone trying to harm the ward of the Night’s Watch.”

“I am the Queen Selyse of House Baratheon,” she snapped. “I was only warning that child to stay away from my daughter! I have a right as a mother to do as such!”

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “But you have no right to touch her. You are indeed the queen, so I’ll let this go this time, but should I find out that you dare to grab Lyaella in such a way again, I will inform the king. Your husband did agree to this term for both himself and from anyone in his company while he stays here at Castle Black.”

Selyse swelled with all the fury known in the words of the Baratheon House, but Jon didn’t give her an opportunity to continue. Bowing politely to her and Shireen one final time, he bent down, collected the fallen book, and passed it back to Lyaella as he clapped his hand firmly on her shoulder before steering her up the stairs.

Lyaella didn’t dare say anything as they climbed the stone steps. She just bowed her head and squeezed her book on firmly to her chest as she leaned into his side. She was still trembling from head to toe, and her shoulder ached from where the stag queen’s hands had gripped her.

“You shouldn’t have lingered,” Jon said suddenly, not glancing down at her as they emerged into the Castle Black courtyard. “It’s… It’s dishonorable to eavesdrop, if nothing else.”

Lyaella flushed, embarrassed by the small chastise beyond all belief. “I… I’m s-sorry…” she murmured. “I h-hadn’t planned to do so, but… but I heard her mention me. I wanted t-to know what she was telling Shireen about me… She… She t-told her to stay away from me from now on. Me and S-Sōnar…”

She half-expected him to shake his head in disapproval regardless, but to her surprise he didn’t. He simply sighed. “I get it. I know what it’s like, wondering what people say about you when they tell others to avoid you.”

“R-Really? You… You do?"

“Perhaps not to the same extent as you, but aye. I’m a Snow too, after all. Some people didn’t exactly want their children to play with the infamous Bastard of Winterfell.”

Lyaella gazed up at him in wonder as he steered her up the wooden walkways. She never knew that. No one ever liked talking about her father to her and Torrhen in their timeline unless they were criticizing him for his mistakes. She never knew he went through similar mistreatment as them and was ostracized in a similar way. She wanted to know more.

“Like who? You’re… You’re Jon Snow, and Eddard Stark raised you. Who was openly mean to you when you were raised by the Warden of the North?”

It was the only way she could think to phrase her question while following the rules of Truth or Half-Truth. It was the truth that he was raised by Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North, but she wouldn’t call the late Lord Stark his father. That privilege would always belong to his real father, Rhaegar Targaryen.

Still, Jon didn’t reply to her straight away. If anything, he looked pained by her question. “That’s… That’s something that’s over and done with, now,” he told her gruffly. “No point dwelling over it.”

She frowned, her shoulder deflating a bit. She’d hoped for a moment there that perhaps he was finally opening up to her. “Oh, o-okay, then,” she murmured. “Then… Then do you s-suppose you could train me again today for a little while? I know I… I t-trained with you earlier, but… b-but I really want to improve! Or could you take me to the… the t-top of the Wall later? I haven’t gone up t-there yet. Could you—?”

“Sorry, I can’t,” he quickly cut her off. “In case you’ve forgotten, Stannis Baratheon wishes to speak with you.”

“Oh,” she muttered, stiffening nervously. “That’s r-right… Why? Does he… Does he w-want to punish me like Lady Selyse for… for spending t-time with Shireen?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t explain his reasons.”

Lyaella trembled as they approached the door to Jon’s new quarters. He raised his fist to knock, but she promptly tugged on his cloak to get his attention.

“Will… W-Will you come in with me? I don’t… I don’t wanna be alone in there…”

“Sorry, I can’t. I’m about to summon the rest of the men in the Watch for a meeting in the Mess Hall. I have to go.”

“B-But—”

“You’ll be fine. Stannis might be harsh man, but he seems practical. As does his hand, Ser Davos. He seems like an honest fellow. Nothing will happen, I promise.”

Before she could utter another protest, he raised his fist and knocked three times.

“I have her, your grace. She’s here.” He glanced down at her, nodding politely. “Go on in. I’ll see you soon.” And with that, he turned sharply on his heel and headed back down the walkway.

Lyaella didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want Jon to leave her right now. She didn’t want to go in there and speak to Stannis Baratheon. She’d tried to keep her head down here at Castle Black so as not to make him angry with her, but he still wanted to see her. She was tempted to run after Jon right now and ignore the king. Maybe she should at least call Sōnar down from the sky. If her dragon was here, she wouldn’t feel nearly so—

The door abruptly swung open, revealing a kind, bearded face she knew all too well.

“Hello there, little one,” said Ser Davos with a smile. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Despite her nervousness, Lyaella couldn’t help but shyly smile in return. Regardless of his current allegiance to House Baratheon, Lyaella was pleased to see the Onion Knight alive and well. He’d always been good to her and Torrhen when they saw him. Gathering her skirts of her dress, she made a quick, polite curtsy. “H-Hello…”

“Come in, please. His grace has been expecting you.” He stepped out of the way and gestured for her to enter. She hesitated for a brief moment, her nerves settling in again, but with a deep breath she slowly entered the room.

Stannis was sitting behind the Lord Commander’s desk, expression as stony as usual, and standing by near the fireplace in the corner was Lady Melisandre, smiling mysteriously. She froze the moment she saw them together, her nerves getting the better of her once again, but Ser Davos shut the door behind them and gently nudged her forward.

“Go on, it’s all right,” he assured her. “We only wish to talk.”

Stannis nodded curtly. “It’s all right. I assure you that I have no intention of harming you right now. Come closer.”

Swallowing thickly, Lyaella hesitantly stepped closer to the desk. With shaky legs, she made a small, polite curtsy. “G-Good… Good day, Lord S-Stannis…” she whispered.

A pregnant pause filled the room, and Lyaella couldn’t stop herself from shaking fearfully the entire time. She knew what she’d called him. It was the truth, after all. He really wasn’t a real king at the end of the day. Stannis’ seemingly blank expression suddenly becoming quite fixed. Ser Davos frowned, his face turning pensive, yet Lady Melisandre quirked her head a bit, curious.

“I am a king, child,” he said slowly. “Not a lord. You shall address me as such, or refer to me as ‘your grace.’ Understood?”

Lyaella frowned. Setting her book down on the desk, and she wrung her hands together nervously, letting her eyes wander off aimlessly to the side. “I… I k-know what the proper way to address r-royalty is. But with all… all p-possible respect, Lord Baratheon, you’re only… only a k-king claimant. Your last name’s n-not Targaryen, nor are you f-from… from House Stark, the Kings of Winter. I have no reason to call you k-king if you’re neither…”

Ser Davos glanced back nervously to Stannis at her answer. The king claimant lips turned downward, displeased, but luckily he didn’t appear terribly angry. More like exasperated, as though he’d been expecting this response. Lady Melisandre only seemed more curious than ever.

“You’re an intriguing child, Lyaella Snow. A very intriguing child.”

Lyaella had no comment for that. She just avoided making all eye contact with the Red Woman as she possibly could. As much as she was scared of what Stannis Baratheon could do to her, Lady Melisandre frightened her far more than he did with the things she did in the name of the Lord of Light.

“Sit down,” said Stannis quite abruptly. “I want us to have a little chat. Don’t worry, all we’re going to do is talk, you have my word.”

She slid into the chair directly across from him, unable to suppress how much her body was quivering. “I… I d-don’t know what’s going on, but… b-but if you want to yell me too for playing with Shireen, I-I-I promise I’ll stop! L-Lady Baratheon just… just warned me to stay away from her. I-It won’t happen again…”

Stannis’ shoulders twitched at her words, the only visible sign of surprise he made. His eyes flicked over to Ser Davos once, then promptly returned to her. “This is not about that, actually. I shall deal with that matter later. I’ve summoned you here to discuss far more pressing matters.”

“L-Like what?”

“You. You and your missing brother. I know you mentioned before that your parents are dead, but I want to know who they were. Which of them was related to House Targaryen causing you and your brother to be bastards?”

Lyaella froze. “I… I’m not t-telling you that.”

“Do you not understand that regardless of your personal beliefs, I am the one true king of Westeros? I am your king, and as king, I am ordering you to answer my questions. Who were your parents? Who are your relatives? How did they keep you and your brother a secret from my idiot brother Robert’s spies? I had no love for him, but I cannot deny that his former spymaster Varys had his so-called ‘little birds’ everywhere. How did he fail to know about you?”

She gulped. She couldn’t think of any possible way to win Truth or Half-Truth when answering these questions. To tell the whole truth would mean disaster. To tell half-truths would only result in more complicated questions, ones which she couldn’t answer. She had no choice but to abstain from playing the game this time. Shaking her head lightly, she collected her book and hugged it to her chest as she gazed down at her knees.

Stannis seemed to understand what she was doing after an extended silence. “I need you to answer my questions.” She shook her head, still not daring to glance up. “Child, answer me.” She started shaking, eyes growing somewhat moist. “Tell me what you know. Now.”

“I… I w-wont.”

“Your grace, if I may?” said Ser Davos, stepping forward politely. “Perhaps we need to… offer her some better assurances that we don’t wish any harm upon herself or her brother first before we keep insisting information?”

The stag king considered his words, but to everyones surprise, Lady Melisandre nodded in agreement. “Your hand speaks truly, my king. May I?”

He curtly nodded. “Do as your lord commands.”

“Spoken with true belief, your grace,” she said. Turning to Lyaella, she smiled and crossed the room with purposeful strides.

Lyaella shook harder than ever, her anxiety rising. Why couldn’t have Jon have come in here with her right now? If he were here, she would be able to be brave around the murderous Red Woman. But she was alone right now. Ser Davos was trustworthy, but he was still loyal to Stannis right now, so he wouldn’t be of much help to her. She was on her own with dealing with Lady Melisandre.

A particularly bad cough escaped her chest as she shifted to the very edge of her chair. Stupid dry air. “I… I would like to leave, p-please. I won’t… I w-won’t tell you about my family, no matter what you say.”

“Then let’s not talk about that right now,” said the priestess, bending down to her level. “Let’s discuss the priestess you spoke of before instead.”

She heavily sighed. “I t-thought I told you that—”

“I know you said you wouldn’t reveal her identity because she told you not to. I don’t know which follower of R’hollor you or your brother met that would tell you such a thing, but you must understand… it’s critical that you tell me at least whatever you can reveal.”

Lyaella shook her head, fighting back another slight cough. “No.”

The priestess frowned, suddenly becoming rather stern. “I cannot speak for King Stannis on this, but I will not let you leave this room until you tell me something.”

Lyaella stubbornly remained silent, but both Ser Davos and Stannis turned to her in surprise.

“My lady?”

“Lady Melisandre, I thought we all agreed—”

“Forgive me for interrupting, my king, but you and Ser Davos fail to recognize the importance on her apparent past meeting with a fellow priestess of the true Lord’s faith. She must reveal to us whatever she can, because it’s clear she knows something about your destiny of being the Prince that was Promised that will bring the dawn.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because of what she said when you executed the false king amongst the Wildlings — that I’m apparently wrong about you being the ‘one promised prince.’”

Lyaella felt herself go numb. No… no, no, no! How could she have made such a critical error? Had she simply kept her mouth shut when he had executed Mance Rayder, she probably wouldn’t be here now! Her and her big mouth!

Ser Davos looked puzzled, but Stannis was suddenly alert, peering more intensely at Lyaella than he had before. Coughing a bit again, she flushed and averted her eyes. There was no way he was going to let her walk out of this room now. Not after what Lady Melisandre had just pointed out.

“What do you know about the ancient prophecy?” he probed. “What did that priestess tell you about my destiny?”

She bit her lip, breathing heavily. What was she supposed to say? She didn’t want to alter time to much in terms of Stannis Baratheon’s fate. He didn’t seem like a bad man, but he was still aiming for her parents rightful throne. He needed to die if they were to ever have a chance at ruling one day. But if she didn’t tell him something, he might go back on his word about not hurting her. What to do? What to do? What to do?

“Child, I’m waiting for an answer. What do you know about the legend of Azor Ahai’s rebirth?”

She had to play Truth or Half-Truth right now. It was the only thing she could do to keep from revealing too much yet still appease him. “I… Well… the p-priestess Tory and I met told us that there’s… there’s supposed to be a Prince and Princess that was P-Promised… not just one or the other…”

For the first time, Lady Melisandre appeared genuinely surprised, as she jerked her head back a bit while blinking repeatedly. Ser Davos furrowed his brows, but Stannis tilted his head, intrigued.

“Is that true, Lady Melisandre? Is there really two people spoken of in this prophecy?”

She didn’t answer right away. She rose from the ground with a contemplative expression. Not even looking at her king, she paced back and forth across the room, seemingly deep in thought.

Lyaella had no idea what could be going through her mind right now, but the sound of Ser Davos nervously clearing his throat quickly drew her attention. “Your grace, I’ve cautioned you many times about reading into this prophecy too much. This only proves that the legend itself is nonsense. Lady Melisandre doesn’t appear to know anything about this detail, and she’s the one who’s proclaimed the reborn savior.”

Stannis inhaled slowly through his nose, not giving the knight a response. Instead, he glanced back over at the still pacing priestess. “Lady Melisandre?”

“I’m thinking, my king.”

“About?”

She stopped, turning to look at him. “I remember back at the temple in Volantis, there were some who had been going through the ancient texts and transcribing them in the most recent years just before I left for Westeros. I recall hearing a few whispers amongst my fellow sisters that there was possibly a mistranslation in the ancient texts regarding the legend… but very few believed it at the time. I myself did not think this was true. I suppose it’s possible that since my departure, a more accurate translation has happened. I would need to send a raven to the high priestess herself regarding this matter for more details.”

“Is there anything else you could do now?” he inquired. “This is all news to me, and if there’s anything else that can be done, I ask that you do it.”

Lady Melisandre smiled. “I shall look into the flames for you, my king. I shall interpret what the Lord himself has to say about this.”

Nodding respectfully to Stannis, she promptly walked over to the crackling fireplace in the corner, staring intensely into the flames. Lyaella blinked after her, surprised that she was looking for whatever sign she was hoping for right now. But Stannis’ next words caught her attention.

“A princess in the prophecy…” he mused, chin resting on both his knuckles as he stared down intensely at a random spot on the desk surface. “My daughter?”

Ser Davos tensed. “Your grace, it’s one thing to pursue your own claim for the Iron Throne, but the Princess Shireen… she and Queen Selyse only accompanied us here to Castle Black because you were worried about their safety on Dragonstone, in the event the Lannister’s laid siege to the castle. Your daughter only turned ten earlier this year. I do not think it’s wise to get her involved in any of this. At the very least, Queen Selyse should be made part of this discussion before you decide anything.”

Lyaella clutched her necklace, regret pooling deep in her belly. She should have just screamed at the top of her lungs for Sōnar to come down here. If she’d done that, Stannis wouldn’t have been able to stop her from just running out the door. If because of her stupid half-truth Shireen ended up in an early grave prior to her real death in her timeline—

“Agreed, Ser Davos. But there’s also another possibility for the supposed-princess.” His dark eyes flicked back to her. Lyaella jumped, startled. “You are a Targaryen bastard with a dragon, after all. And unlike the Dragon Queen across the sea, you’re here in front of me. Who exactly were your parents, Lady Snow? Any direct relation to the Mad King?”

Despite her slight fear, Lyaella sat up straighter in her seat, her brows furrowing pointedly. “Do not… Do not call me a princess,” she said, mustering up as much force as she could to sound strong. “I’m a n-no one, a Snow.”

“Snow or not you have more kings blood flowing through your veins than even I do. Were it not for the fact that you are a Snow, you’d have a higher claim to the Iron Throne than I would, believe it or not.”

“N-No, I wouldn’t. Torrhen would… He’s a b-boy, after all…”

He cracked a tiny smirk. “True, very true. I suppose I’d have a real problem on my hands in terms of staking my claim if your brother was here right now.”

Lyaella awkwardly nodded. She honestly had no idea where he was going with all this. “Is… Is there anything else you wanted from me? I’m not s-saying… saying anything else about T-Torrhen or my parents. So, can I go please, my lord?”

His smile vanished again at her words. Closing his eyes, he gathered himself to ensure he’d stay emotionless, then slowly looked back at her again.

“Again, I ask that you remember that I am a king, Lady Snow. It’d be in your best interest to remember that from now on.”

“Why?”

“Because I wish to offer you a bargain. Probably the best bargain would be willing to offer an illegitimate child of House Targaryen.”

She tilted her head, puzzled. “A bargain? With me?”

“That’s correct.”

“Why? What kind of bargain?”

“The kind that promises you safety and a better life for yourself and possibly your brother too if and when he’s found he agrees to my terms. And as for why, it’s fairly simple. Your very existence makes for… a complicated political quandary, and on top of that, you have a dragon. I wish to rectify the political aspect of your existence here and now, because despite your Targaryen lineage, you are only a threat to my claim because of your blood… and because of what you could do to my forces with your dragon.”

Lyaella tensed. She was fairly certain she knew where Stannis was going with this, and if her instincts were right, she was not comfortable. “Sōnar's my friend. I… I’m not p-planning to hurt anyone with her. Not unless s-someone… someone attacks me first.”

He nodded. “Exactly. You just proved my point.”

She blinked, puzzled.

“You have a dragon, but you don’t have the same bloodlust as the Mad King was said to have,” he explained. “I’ve no doubt that if he’d had that dragon of yours out there, he’d have set King Landing aflame without a second thought… but then again that wouldn’t have been necessary. He’d have burned both his son and my idiot brother along with both their armies back on the Trident. It’s well known that he laughed while burning the late Rickard Stark alive with Wildfire while his heir strangled himself to death trying to save him, after all.”

Lyaella thickly swallowed. There was no doubt in her mind that those scenarios definitely would have occurred if her Targaryen grandfather and great-grandfather had indeed had a dragon so many years ago. Her mother was only known as the Mad Queen because of how the Starks drove her towards madness. The Mad King, though? She and Torrhen knew the truth about what he’d planned to do to King’s Landing before he died, after all…

“The fact that you have no intention of doing such a thing proves you have a good head on your shoulders. That being said… you’re only a threat to my claim because of your lineage and your dragon. You yourself don’t seem to have the strength to even be a threat.”

Lyaella stared, as did Ser Davos.

“Your grace?”

Stannis glanced over at his Hand, gesturing to the little girl. “Take a look at her, Ser Davos. Not counting her hair color and that Targaryen necklace ‘round her neck, what do you see?”

The smuggler turned to her, eyes flicking up and down her hunched up figure on the chair in obvious bewilderment. Lyaella kept gazing back and forth between the two of them, wondering what on earth was happening now.

“I… I see a little girl, your grace.”

“But what about this child sticks out to you, Ser Davos? Aside from the obvious dragon traits in her appearance, what’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

Ser Davos glanced at her, eyes silently offering her an apology. She had no idea what the old knight was going to say, but whatever it was, she wouldn’t hold it against him. Stannis was the one forcing him to say whatever he saw when looking at her, it wasn’t Ser Davos’ will to say this.

“I’d say… confusion, your grace. She seems confused by what’s going on, and nervous.”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s right. You’re nothing at all like the mad Targaryen’s that your House is known for, Lyaella Snow. Instead of being cruel like the Mad King, you’re surprisingly kind. Instead of getting angry when people insult you, you hold your tongue and cry. You’re shy, too. You’re nothing at all what people would expect a Targaryen to be… you even befriended my daughter. The rightful crown princess of House Baratheon. House Baratheon led to the downfall of House Targaryen.”

Lyaella felt distinctly hot in the face as her eyes trailed off. Nothing Stannis said right now was untrue, but… but his words still stung her as though they’d been thrown at her like an indirect insult. “Shireen is like… like me, my l-lord. Neither of us had even b-been alive when people plotted t-to overthrow House Targaryen. She’s… She’s no more at f-fault than I am for what’s happened to my House. M-More than that, she’s the… only person my age I’ve ever had for a f-friend, not counting Tory, Shadow, and Sōnar.”

“Once again, you shall address me as ‘your grace,’ or ‘my king.’ But you are right about that. Many Targaryen’s out there would have simply decided to hate all of House Baratheon if in the event they were in your place right now. That you have the decency to realize that Shireen is a completely innocent party is very different than how the Mad King would have seen things, if he was still alive.”

She nodded, frowning sadly. “Yes… I’m s-sorry if I was out of line by playing with her… I’ll do as your wife says and stay away from n-now on… But could you apologize t-to her for me? I never got the chance t-to say goodbye to her when her mother demanded we stop playing.”

He frowned, annoyed. “Don’t worry about that, you’re free to spend as much time around my daughter as you wish.”

“B-But… But your wife told me—”

“I shall deal with my wife at a l-later time. I’ve never seen my daughter so happy since before coming here, and even though we’ll be leaving soon, I’m glad she’s found a friend. If anything, the fact that you two are friends is part of the reason why I want to make this bargain with you.”

“And… And what b-bargain is that?”

A small smirk cracked across is otherwise stone-like face. “The same one I offered the new Lord Commander, yet he turned down. Bend the knee. Pledge you’ll support my claim as king and allow me to use your dragon to win the Iron Throne, and I swear that you’ll be under my protection, as will your brother once he’s found if he does the same. I’ll even legitimize you under a surname of your choice, provided it’s not Targaryen.”

Lyaella shot to her feet so fast, she knocked her chair over. Both men jolted from her unexpected action, and even the red priestess tore her eyes away from the fire in alarm.

“Goodness!” Lady Melisandre exclaimed. “I know the Lord told me you’d be overwhelmed with emotion when his grace told you his offer, but still!”

Ser Davos chuckled, strolling over and setting the chair right-side up. “Must be quite a shock for you, young lady,” he said kindly. “Offered the chance to be legitimized.”

Another small smile appeared on Stannis’ face. “I take it you’re going to agree, then?”

Lyaella stared at him, wide-eyed but her face otherwise blank. For the longest time, she just stood there, unmoving and face unreadable. Stannis’ grin slowly fell as he stared at her, puzzled. He soon turned to glance at his two advisers.

“Is she all right? I know she’s overly emotional, but still…”

Lady Melisandre appeared equally confused. Ser Davos’ brows furrowed as he gently shook her shoulder.

“Lyaella? Are you—”

“Keep your offer. No deal.”

The adults barely had time to even absorb what she said before Lyaella promptly gathered her skirts, curtsied politely, and then sharply spun around, marching to the door.

Stannis blinked repeatedly, then promptly stood up himself. Crossing the room in several long strides, he caught the girls’ shoulder just as she’d been reaching for the doorknob. “Lady Snow, are you fully aware of what it is I’m offering you? I’m giving you the chance to no longer be seen as a bastard. For you to live a somewhat normal life despite your—”

“Despite my what? My silver hair? My heritage?”

The sudden bitterness in her tone knocked all three adults for a loop, as did her lack of stutter. She’d stared solely at the door as she said this, but upon receiving no response, she snapped her head up at Stannis, her generally sweet gray eyes narrowed furiously at the stag king.

“You… You sound just like that other man who was pretending to run things here before… Jon was elected Lord Commander,” she snipped. “That old knight, Thorne. He thought he could bribe me with that, too! Said that he’d been loyal to House Targaryen back in his day before your brother Robert sentenced… sentenced him here to the Wall, so he’d do whatever he could to house me here permanently at the Wall if I told the men here in the Watch that… that I’d let them use Sōnar to hunt down Wildlings! He thought that’d help him become Lord Commander! You wanna know what I told him, Lord Stannis?”

Stannis blinked at her, eyes quickly shifting over to take in the equally stunned looks on Ser Davos and Lady Melisandre’s faces before slowly gazing back down at the furious child.

If anything, her glare seemed to twist into an even more furious sneer. “I told him the same thing! Keep your offer! No deal! Sōnar’s… Sōnar’s not a weapon! She’s my sister! My friend! And I’m… I’m not a pawn in your games to become king! You don’t really care about protecting me… you just want my dragon to win the Iron Throne for you! I still think Shireen is a good person, and I’m glad that I got to have her for a friend, however short of time that was… but you can’t buy me over with such an empty gesture!”

Silence filled the room, neither Stannis nor either of his advisers seeming to know what to say in reply to this. Lyaella panted heavily as she glared up at the Baratheon king. She shook her head, disgusted by the man. What was wrong with all false kings and queens in this world? Were they all so thick-headed to believe that they could buy allies with these tactics?! For all the times people called her father a Northern Fool in her timeline, this was one time that she could honestly believe he’d actually been wise all along. Only an arrogant fool would agree to be legitimized. Thank goodness he’d been smart enough to turn the legitimization offer down when he did.

“If that’s all you wanted me for, may I leave now?” she snipped. “I’d much rather be anywhere else in Castle Black right now.”

Stannis seemed completely lost for words. The stoic man was actually showing emotion, he was so shocked. He didn’t even answer her. He just stared at her in disbelief.

Shaking her head again, Lyaella threw him one last cold glare and reached for the door handle.

“Why are you so against his grace’s offer?” said Lady Melisandre quite suddenly.

Clutching her book tightly with one hand and the door handle with the other, Lyaella glared pointedly at the door. Focusing on a particular deep knot in the wood was the only way she could keep her tone angry right now instead of succumbing to rapidly incoming sobs. “That’s not your concern.”

“Oh? And why is that? It wouldn’t have anything to do with what the Lord showed me in the flames right now, does it?”

“And just what did the Lord of Light show you?”

“I believe I saw you when you were far younger, and even your dark-haired brother, though I admit I couldn’t see his face. It was fleeting, but I believe you were both mentioned regarding something about a wisp of blood.”

Quick as a flash, Lyaella whipped around, nearly falling backwards onto Stannis. The Baratheon quickly leapt aside.

“Goodness, child! I know you’re mad, but—”

“W-What… What did y-you say…?”

Stannis and his advisers were again taken off guard. All of Lyaella’s previous anger had vanished in an instant. She was frozen in shock as she stared directly at the red priestess, her face growing whiter and whiter with each passing second.

Ser Davos was quite alarmed. “Lyaella? What’s wrong?”

Lyaella didn’t even seem to hear him. She started trembling, taking small steps backward away from Lady Melisandre until her back pressed up against the door. “You… You said…”

“I only repeated what the Lord showed me in his vision of you and who I presume was your brother. What is—”

“What y-you said…” she whispered, horror quite evident in her words. “You… How could you k-know…?” She seemed to snap out of it with a quick head shake, but even when she looked up again, the adults could all see that she was clearly somewhat in shock. “Y-You stay away from me! I… I don’t know how you know that, but… but stay away from me! Stay away from Sōnar!”

Rationality all but gone, she whirled back around, flung the door open, and dashed out of the room without a second glance.

Lyaella didn’t even know where she was running to, she was still so shocked. Her feet were just running along the wooden walkways, and she just went along with them. How? How could Lady Melisandre know about that? She… She was dead in the future! There’s no way she could possibly know about—

A door suddenly banged open down on the main ground level of the courtyard. It snapped Lyaella out of her slight state of panic, and she skidded to a halt as she peered down below.

* * *

The bitter aftertaste of ale burned strongly across Jon’s tongue as he marched out of the Main Hall. The rest of the sworn brothers were already gathered outside around the lone wooden platform off to the side of the courtyard. Unlike the rest of the wooden walkways in Castle Black, this was one was different because it connected to nowhere, it stood alone from the rest of the high platforms with only the wooden steps on the ground leading up to its main level. In the entirety of Jon’s time in the Night’s Watch, there had never been need for this particular platform. Lord Commander Mormont had been a strict man, but still fair to all the brothers, so no one ever had any need to disobey his orders. Thorne probably would have loved to sentence him here after he came back from his spying mission on the Wildlings, but sadly he’d been overruled on that count by the other officers. Still, despite how unpleasant the acting-Lord Commander had been to him in particular prior to his own election, he’d kept everyone on their toes with the approaching threat of Mance’s Wildling army. Not everyone may have liked Thorne, but they still obeyed his orders, so he’d never had a reason to have someone up here, either.

But now when he was the new Lord Commander, someone had finally directly disobeyed one of his first commands. Not only that, they’d publicly insulted him while doing so. Which left him no other choice. For the fist time since his own arrival at Castle Black, the Night’s Watch would be holding an official execution for one of its own. And as Lord Commander, it was his duty to carry out that task.

The rest of the brothers watched him pensively as he approached Olly by the stairs, but he didn’t dare gaze at anyone as he accepted his sword from his young steward. He was no longer a regular recruit amongst them. He was Lord Commander, and he had to be seen as the one in charge. He kept an aloof, icy mask on his face as he climbed the steps. He didn’t even look over at Edd as he helped the two other brothers in restraining Janos Slynt so his head hung over the edge of the chopping block. He just moved into position beside the disobedient man and calmly unsheathed Longclaw.

“If you have any last words, my lord, say them now.”

For all of Slynt’s shouting a few minutes ago while the men dragged him out here on not being afraid and about having friends in high places back in King’s Landing, the man was shaking in terror now. Tears dribbled down his cheeks as he gazed up at him fearfully. “I-I-I’m sorry! I was — I was wrong!” he whimpered. “Y-You’re — You’re the Lord Commander, w-we all serve you! I’m sorry! Not only f-for — for this, b-but for everything! And for w-what — what I said about the T-Targaryen child!”

Catching a whiff of urine in the air, Jon simply narrowed his eyes. Pathetic, so pathetic. How much lower could he sink to right now? The man was a coward, plain and simple. He’d heard as much from Sam and Gilly when he’d hidden away during Mance’s attack on Castle Black, but seeing it with his own eyes was a whole other matter. He’d directly refused his order to pack his bags and take up the command post at Greyguard. Whether Slynt liked him or not, he was the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He refused to to obey his orders, and therefore he had to die. The fact that prior to this everyone had been asking what he planned to do about Lyaella Snow and Slynt accused him of only letting the ‘monstrous dragon bastard’ and her ‘fire breathing lizard’ follow him around so much was because he was secretly like all the other known pedophiles that had been sentenced to the Wall for hurting kids was completely irrelevant. Jon had been disgusted by his accusation, and his rage had only grown when Slynt mocked him further. After he’d calmed the room and explained to everyone he was still deliberating on what was the best thing to do about the Targaryen girl, Slynt yelled that if he really cared about the Watch he’d write to the Lannister’s immediately about Lyaella, but the fact that he wasn’t proved he really did have other reasons for wanting her to stay.

Everyone else had the sense to not join in on Slynt’s mocking, as no one else found it funny. Not even Thorne. Oddly enough, that was probably why Thorne simply stood aside when Jon told the others to take Slynt outside. Guess it was a good thing he’d been a Targaryen loyalist back in his day.

Still, Slynt’s hatred towards Lyaella and her dragon was not the reason for his death now. His accusations were beyond dishonorable, but Jon could have quietly disregarded them. It was the fact that Slynt refused to obey his command that he had to kill the man.

Sucking in a breath, he raised his sword—

“M-My lord, please!” the blade halted in midair. “Mercy! Mercy, p-please! I’ll go! I w-will! Please…” he begged, his tears now becoming blubbering sobs. “I’m… I-I-I’m afraid. I’ve always been afraid…”

There was a momentary silence, as Jon stared him down. Then he quickly swung his blade. With one slice, Janos’ head was cut clean off, and it bounced right down the steps and towards the assembled crowd.

A startled shout abruptly rang out, and immediately, everyone’s heads whipped up to the walkways. Near the entrance to Jon’s new office stood Stannis and his advisers, but further down the walkway was Lyaella, her eyes bulging and both hands covering her mouth.

It took every bit of willpower Jon had to not visibly react to her horror. What was she doing out here? Didn’t Stannis say he wanted to talk to her? Judging by the slight nod the Baratheon king was giving him, he seemed to understand and approve of Janos’ execution, but why hadn’t he, Davos, and Melisandre kept her inside while all this was happening? Jon still didn’t know what to make of the dragon child’s strange attachment to him and wished she’d find someone else here at Castle Black to follow around obsessively, but he’d been comforted thinking that she wasn’t around right now and wouldn’t have to witness this. She’d been so upset by Mance’s execution, after all…

Ignoring the twinge of guilt eating away at him, Jon thrust Longclaw to Olly to clean and looked away from Lyaella. Turning to a group of lingering stewards, he jerked his head at the decapitated body. “Cart him down below, and find his head.” Then he glanced over at some builders off to the side. “You lot gather wood for a fire.”

Silently, the stewards and builders in question did as he commanded, and even extra builders jogged off to help with finding kindling for the pyre. Everyone else just slowly pandered away, some choosing to linger and talk quietly while others went back inside to get warm. No one looked as though they’d be disobeying his orders anytime soon.

He sighed and headed down the stairs to follow after Olly. The sooner he reclaimed Longclaw, the sooner he could head back to his new quarters and let out the full extent of his displeasure for this execution in private now that Stannis was out. He barely made it more than halfway across the courtyard though before he caught a glimpse of a small silver-haired figure hurrying down the walkway steps.

“Jon?” said Lyaella, keeping one hand on her chest as she half-coughed while running up to him. She was slightly out of breath from the quick run. “Jon… why d-did you do that?”

“I can’t talk now,” he told her gruffly, sweeping past without a glance. He couldn’t talk to her now, not when so many people were still mulling about out here. Between everything Janos had been mocking him about regarding her and then needing to maintain his aloof expression until he was alone in his solar, he needed to keep some distance between himself and Lyaella right now. It was the only way he could maintain respect through the Night’s Watch.

Sadly, Lyaella just picked up the pace to walk in time with his fast strides. Another loose cough escaped her again, but she recovered fairly quickly. “I j-just need a… a second!” she insisted. “Why did you… you k-kill that man?”

Thorne and some of the officers glanced their way. Jon sighed, wishing desperately he could rub his temples. This was not the time for her to be pestering him. Why didn’t she get that? “He refused to obey my orders, all right?”

She gaped, astonished. “You… You killed j-just because of that? That’s… T-That’s terrible!”

He didn’t respond to that beyond a grunt of acknowledgment. Nodding to Olly, he swiped Longclaw from his steward with enough force to startle the poor boy. He didn’t linger around to apologize, though. Not when he felt a tiny hand persistently tugging on his cloak.

“Jon? Please… P-Please don’t ignore me! Tell me why you… y-you had to execute him just for that.”

He grit his teeth. “It was necessary, Lyaella,” he tightly muttered, sheathing his sword. Snow kicked up around him with every harsh footfall.

She was nearly running to keep up with him, not at all deterred. “But why?”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut, temper rising. Why? Why now? Why was she bothering him now?! He swiped his hand over his face and sighed. “Because sometimes leaders have to do terrible things to maintain order.”

“No, I m-mean… why did you h-have to kill him? And w-why did you have to behead him like that? T-That was—”

He whipped around. “You’re seriously asking me that?! I thought you said you’re a Northerner?! Every Northerner knows that the man who passes the sentence swings the sword!”

It was so quiet in the courtyard, the only sound to be heard was the whistling of the wind. All across the courtyard, everyone stopped, turning to stare. Even people walking across the walkways halted to gaze down at him. Lyaella flinched away from him, lower lip quivering from his harsh tone.

Jon’s stomach twisted into knots. Shit. Closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair before glancing down apologetically. “That — That came out wro—”

She stepped back, her eyes watering as she glanced down at her feet. “N-No, I get it. I’m… I’m s-sorry…”

“No. I — I didn’t mean—”

“I w-wasn’t aware of that. T-Tory and I… we couldn’t possibly know that thanks to our relatives!”

He blinked, startled. She’d snapped at him. Snapped. Aside from the occasions when she’d been screaming in terror, he’d never heard her raise her voice before. All across the courtyard, everyone else seemed equally caught off guard.

Her whole body trembled with suppressed rage as she kept gazing down at the snowy ground. Then, quite unexpectedly, her head shot up, revealing sharp, teary gray eyes. “O-Our relatives like to pretend they’re Northerners. They… They pride t-themselves for being such… but they’ve spent s-so much time in the S-South they act like Southerners! Our oldest… oldest aunt is in c-charge of our family, and when she h-has people executed, she… she has an executioner d-do it! She never s-swings the sword herself…!”

Jon bit his lip as she stopped to gasp for breath. “Oh. I… I see. I—”

“N-No!” she rasped, her hand clawing at her heart as she furiously shook her head. Hot angry tears streamed down her cheeks, her face as red as a cherry in her rage. “No, you didn’t see! You… You w-weren’t there! You’re not allowed t-to yell at me for… for things I c-can’t help not knowing ‘cause you w-weren’t there! _I can’t help that I know nothing, Jon Snow!”_

A jolt ran through Jon as she completely broke down sobbing. Those words… So similar to what a certain spitfire archer used to say to him, but yet so different, too…

Grimacing at his own lack of patience, Jon hesitantly reached out to pat her shoulder. “L-Lyaella—”

She snarled, whacking his hand aside. Throwing him one last tearful sneer, she shoved past and darted away. She barely made it more than a few yards though when she suddenly stopped, clapping a hand to her mouth as she doubled over, coughing hard again.

Despite how upset she was, Jon couldn’t help but furrow his brows. “Hey,” he called, slowly approaching. “Are you ok—?”

“I-I’m fine!” she snipped, hastily straightening up. “Just leave me alone!” She started running again, but once again stopped after only two or three steps, whipping around to shoot him a icy glare. “Oh, and for t-the record… I was only c-curious why it was necessary to kill him by b-beheading! I… I wouldn’t want to s-see a man hanged ‘cause… ‘cause that’s how my _father_ died, b-but — but it’s still better than seeing a man’s h-head chopped off ‘c-cause that how people _wanted_ to kill him!”

A heavy stone dropped in Jon’s stomach. He froze right where he was, utterly speechless. Everyone watching did double-takes at the little girl, even Stannis and those in his army. But Lyaella didn’t stick around for anyone to recover from their shock. She just sobbed and bolted off to the elevator leading up to the top of the Wall. With a cough-fueled furious cry, she threw her whole body on the lever crank to make it go up. As soon as the lift started rising, she flung herself on board and slammed the door shut behind her. Everyone was silent as they watched her slowly ascend to the top of the frozen glacier, no one daring to go to the pulley and force the lift down again. Her sobs could still be heard by everyone in the courtyard until she and the elevator were nothing more than brief specks high in the sky.

For a little while, no one said anything, let alone moved. But even when the first rare souls managed to clear their throats and go about their business again, Jon felt everyone’s judging eyes slowly turn to him. He knew what they must be thinking right now. Seven hells, he knew what he’d be thinking had someone else said what he’d said to her and then she revealed that. He let out a pained sigh, covering his face with his palm as shame coiled in his gut.

Fuck.

* * *

The air was much thinner at the top of the Wall, dryer. It was windier too, and that made it colder. That was why there were so many little metal barrels for the men of the Watch to light fires in and huddle around when on to watch duty. But those who were assigned to this task right now were avoiding the lookout point closest to the elevator. Because with a certain dragon child having decided to come hide away up here, her dragon was over there now too, softly rumbling comforting rumbles as she wept into white and blue scales.

Lyaella sobbed and sobbed as she hugged Sōnar, burying her face into her long neck. The moment she’d arrived up here, she had just pushed past every other startled lookout man and ran to the closest opening near the edge of the Wall, literally screaming at the top of her lungs for her dragon to come over. The Watchers hadn’t been pleased by the idea and tried shoving her rudely back to the elevator despite her tears, but when Sōnar fluttered down from the sky and saw her being manhandled like that, she had been livid, roaring and spitting out warning embers for everyone to get away from her little mistress. Since then, everyone just gathered to the far side of the Wall and left them be. Neither Lyaella nor Sōnar were causing any problems for now, nor was the dragon trying to hurt anyone… though that could change if someone did try forcing them to go. They just left them alone and prayed they’d go away eventually.

Lyaella wasn’t sure how long she stayed up there for while crying to her dragon, but by the time she finally mustered the strength to hiccup breathlessly as she poked her head out, it was nighttime. It’d been mid-afternoon when she finally snapped after her long, horrible bad day, but everything that had happened led to her completely breaking down and forgetting the world existed for the past several hours. It was pitch black outside, and between the clouds covering the sky, she could just barely make out the twinkling white dots of the faraway stars.

Panting heavily from all her tears, she scrubbed her eyes dry and leaned back softly against Sōnar’s neck, gently stroking her scales. “I… I h-hate it here, Sōnar…” she sobbed. “I wish… I wish T-Torrhen and Shadow were here. They’re the s-strong ones, after all… They’d be able t-to… to deal with all this…”

Sōnar crooned, tucking Lyaella further under wings so she’d stay warm. Lyaella accepted the embrace, sucking in a deep breath as she snuggled even closer while closing her eyes. Were it not so bitter cold up here and her chest so tight and filled with icky phlegm from sniffling so hard as she cried, she could easily fall asleep right now, lulled to dreamland by the steady rhythm of Sōnar’s heartbeat. Back when she was little and Sōnar and Shadow were still small enough that Queen Sansa didn’t yet lock them away in the kennels, she and Torrhen had demanded that their beds be pushed together so the four of them could all sleep together. From the moment Sōnar first hatched and they first found Shadow to the day that they grew too big, they did that every night. Those were the best times, sleeping together like that. Almost as good as—

Her eyes flew open and she took another deep breath, not letting herself finish that thought. She was a Northerner, she remembered that time, way back when… but she didn’t like remembering it. She and Torrhen knew the condition they set for themselves regarding those days — never forget them, but don’t dwell on them. So long as they remembered but didn’t let it define them, they could deal with it. They could deal with the additional pain the Starks cut them with.

The wind whipped past, and Lyaella coughed up a small spectral of mucus as the tiny side braid Shireen made for her slapped her cheek. Batting it away with so she could cover her mouth, it whacked her again, landing close to her eyes. She face scrunched up, annoyed. Ignoring the additional wetness gathering from the irritation, she sucked down the snot she felt clinging to the back of her throat and shakily unwound the cute weave. Her heart clenched painfully in her chest, but she disregarded it. She’d said it herself before that she didn’t deserve a braid. She’d done nothing in her life to be worthy of a braid like her amazing mother. She wasn’t strong like her. She wasn’t brave like her father. Heck, it was clear that her father didn’t even like her, period.

More tears flooded her eyes, and she gasped breathlessly as a few more sobs escaped her lungs. Jon didn’t like her. He hated her. Her future father hated her… She fisted her dragon pendant and the collar of her dress right beneath it into her hand as more aching pain emanated from her chest. For all the times people had told her she was the smart one between her and Torrhen, she was actually dumber than the late Ned Stark. She was so stupid to think she could eventually make Jon come to like her even without telling him that she was his future daughter. She’d done everything she could to forge a bond with him — being kind and friendly despite her shyness, begging him to train her, following him around nonstop one day to see if she could help him with anything, congratulating him when he’d been chosen as the new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch… But every time he’d acted cool and distant towards her, refusing to let her get too close. She’d simply thought that he was aloof by nature and wood warm up to her in time, but it was clear now that that would never happen. She’d purposefully never even come here to the top of the Wall yet during all her time at Castle Black because she’d wanted her first visit to the top to be a special experience with him showing her the view. It was too dark right now to truly see anything out in the Lands of Always Winter, but it was still her first visit to the top right now, and he wasn’t here. She’d never get that experience with him. He didn’t want anything to do with her, let alone give share a special experience like that.

But she’d said to him right after he yelled at her… She shouldn’t have said that. She shouldn’t have gotten so upset and told him what happened to him in her timeline. Granted, she was pretty sure Jon was still clueless on who she really was and she tell him all the details on why he died, but even so… she really messed up. Even though she followed the rules of Truth or Half-Truth and didn’t explain everything, could revealing that half-truth have a bad effect on the future?

Sighing heavily, she tried to close her eyes again and nestle up against Sōnar’s warm belly to get closer to her wing, but the moment she exhaled her whole chest became incredibly tight, making it impossible for her to intake as much air as she needed to.

Alarmed, Lyaella sat straight up, keeping one hand on her chest as she wheezed out the little air she managed to suck in. A light whistling noise emanated from her mouth as she did so, and seconds later she broke out coughing again. Hard. Her dragon squawked, turning her long neck to look at her curiously.

As soon as the coughs subsided, the little girl tried harder than ever to take in more air, but again, she could make her lungs go so far before they were forced to retract again. It was too painful to make them go any further right now with her chest being so tight. She barely managed to finish exhaling before she wheezed in more ice cold oxygen.

Dread seeped through Lyaella all the way down to her bones. This was bad. The last few times she’d gotten all breathless and tight chested, she coughed a lot yet never actually wheezed. Yet she wasn’t even doing anything right now except sitting next Sōnar while crying, and she was rasping for breath. Her lungs weren’t just having an off-moment this time. This was potentially going to be a very bad attack. If she didn’t do something to stave off the symptoms straight away…

She shook her head. No, best not to think about that. Right now, she just needed to get back down to the courtyard and quietly enter the Main Hall without attracting anyone’s attention. If someone saw her breathing hard, they’d drag her straight to Master Aemon for that disgusting potion of watered down red wine and owls blood. She liked her uncle well enough, but she was not drinking that tonic again. Not for anything. So long as she managed to drink some water fairly quickly, that should stave off the symptoms, at least well enough to make it through tonight. She’d figure something else out if this was still happening come tomorrow morning. Right now, she just needed to find some water to deal with the immediate problem.

With shaky legs, Lyaella sucked in a deep breath before attempting to rise. The sudden change in the way her chest was forced to move made her break out coughing again, and she leaned up against Sōnar with one hand for support while clapping the other to her mouth as she doubled over. Phlegm danced around sporadically in her chest with each cough, and Sōnar whined worriedly, nuzzling her cheek gently with her head.

As soon as she was able to, Lyaella lowered her hand back to her chest and slowly glanced at her dragon. “I… I need you to… to meet me down below, Sōnar…” she wheezed. “We’ve gotta… We’ve gotta find me… some water…!”

Sōnar seemed to understand this particular attack was worse than others had been recently, and she rumbled with a quick bob of her head. Nudging her snout encouragingly against Lyaella’s chin for reassurance, the white dragon spread her wings, and took off into the air, soon diving down back to the main level of Castle Black.

Relieved, Lyaella moved closer to the edge of the carved out ice wall next to her, and started walking with incredibly small steps back to the lift. It was a long ride back down, so she had to hurry. Every second was a second that counted right now, and until she got some water, they were potentially ticking away the amount of time she had left before her lungs potentially shut down on her.

She was only a few feet away from the elevator and beginning to think she might be able to get down without anyone up here noticing her breathing trouble when a long Watcher rounded the corner, seeing her alone.

“Oy! What happened to your dragon?”

She stood up straighter, not even daring to let herself breathe at all in case he heard her wheezing. “Sōnar… she went back… back down…” she slowly answered. “She wanted to… to go to sleep early, tonight… I-I-I would too, actually…”

The lone ranger stared at her for a long moment, and it took all of Lyaella’s willpower to keep herself from making another deep inhale and not cough as she stared back. If he realized there was something wrong, he’d alert everyone here at Castle Black before she could even say, ‘I have bad lungs.’ She couldn’t let that happened. She didn’t like Maester Marlon’s disgusting tonic. She wasn’t drinking it, period. And she didn’t want Jon to find out that she was sick either. Despite their fight earlier, she didn’t want him to find out about her health issues. This was her problem to deal with, not his. And besides… it’s not like he wanted to anything to do with her judging by their argument earlier. She didn’t blame him for that, considering who she was, after all. It was only natural he shouldn’t care about one lonely, shy little girl who cried over everything, at the end of the day.

To her great relief, the ranger soon nodded. “Fine. I’ll let you down then, if you want. Turn the lever for you.

“T-Thank… Thank you,” she said, feeling rather drained. She was relieved that he’d been satisfied with that minimal response. To talk at all right now felt rather taxing.

Climbing into the lift, she forced herself to hold her breath and give a tight smile as the ranger sent her down. She kept it up too even though her lungs were throbbing for reprieve and more air until she had gone down far enough that he was completely out of sight. Only then did she double over and exhale, clutching her knees as she gasped for fresh air. It felt good to get more oxygen, but at the same time it seemed like she couldn’t breathe enough. Like… like one lung was working at half it’s strength while the other was so stuffed full of liquid that air couldn’t get in.

Slowly straightening up, Lyaella ignored the view of the world zipping past and simply clung to the metal wire-work zigzagging across the side windows. She needed to stand. If she fell over in here, she might accidentally off balance the whole elevator and drop to her death in this rickety box. She just needed to make it back down to the courtyard and she’d be okay. Sōnar would support her as she slipped into the Mess Hall to find some water. She was going to be fine.

“Br… B-Breathe…” she panted, slowly closing her eyes. “J-Just… Just bre—”

A new wave of disgusting coughs cut her off, and she groaned as each one made her chest tighten even more. This was definitely one of the worst attacks she’d had in a long time. But why now? Why’d it have to happen while she was here at the Wall? Why’d it have to happen on the same day Jon made it clear he didn’t like her? She hadn’t wanted him to know about her stupid lungs from the beginning, but now she had to keep them secret more than ever. No reason to give him more incentive to think she was a waste of space and annoying.

It seemed to take an eternity, but at last, the lift made it all the way to the bottom. Overjoyed, Lyaella let out a breathy smile and heaved herself to the door, all but flinging it open as she staggered out. Sōnar had arrived long before she did, and she crooned happily upon seeing the child slowly descend the walkway steps towards her, clutching the railing with both arms for support.

Lyaella tiredly smiled when she reached her dragon, patting her only once. “H-Hi…” she moaned, exhausted by all the heavy coughs and wheezes. Thank goodness she’d gotten down here so fast. Now that it was nighttime, there was no one loitering around the courtyard. She still didn’t want to go running for real help, but without assistance, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to make it to the Main Hall. At least not while hurrying, and she needed to hurry. The faster she got some water to wash away all this gunk in her lungs, the faster she’d be able to fully breathe again.

Coughing a bit more, she weakly nudged Sōnar’s wing to get her attention.

“Come… Come on, S-Sōnar… Let’s… Let’s go f-find wa… water…”

Sōnar rumbled. Unfurling her wing so her mistress would stay firmly nestled against her side, the dragon slowly moved forward, Lyaella panting and wheezing the whole time as she kept one arm wrapped around her. The little girl was in a daze the whole time as they tromped through the snow, her only coherent thoughts being finding water and breathing as much as she could. Everything was going to be fine as soon as they made it over there. She’d drink some water. She’d be fine. No one… No one would have to find out what was happening right now. Just make it over there, and everything would turn out fine.

But then again… had the courtyard always been so big here at Castle Black? The main entrance seemed oh so far away to her unfocused eyes, and with her shallow breaths thanks to attack, she felt slightly lightheaded and disoriented. Every step she was forced to take took tremendous effort on her part, and her chest was so unbearably tight it felt as though some invisible person was trying to shove her down to the ground which each movement. It made her legs shake the entire time, and her anxiety grew. She had to get into that room and pour herself some water now, before her legs gave way on her.

Sadly, they were three-quarters of the way across the courtyard when she finally noticed the flickering light emanating from underneath the closed door, and the distinctive sounds of people’s chatter as cheaply made utensils scraped across tin plates. People were still inside, eating dinner. To go in there right now meant everyone would see her and find out about her lung problems.

Tears flowed down her cheeks as she tried to sob in dismay, but that only led her coughing hard again. Sōnar warbled worriedly, but she couldn’t say anything to her dragon, not when more gunk gathered in her mouth and she was forced to spit out excessive amounts of solid white snot in the snow. Thank goodness it was white and blended in easily. Had it been yellow or green, there was the chance someone might notice.

It took her quite a bit until she could find the strength to attempt to talk again. “Sorry… I’m f-fine…” she whispered, her voice not able to go any higher. “L-Let’s… Let’s l-look for… for water… w-water barrels…”

Sōnar squawked, shocked. Ignoring her mistress, she tried leading her to the door, but Lyaella launched her whole body towards her neck, wrapping both arms around her with all her body weight.

“N-No! We… W-We’re not… not telling p-people! We look… l-look for water al… alone…!”

Lyaella mustered what little strength she still had left to shove her dragon towards the forge. Her dragon rumbled uneasily at her, but Lyaella ignored her. There were barrels over there. Surely one had to have clean water inside, and it was warmer over there too thanks to the burning grates. Any chance of water in the courtyard that wasn’t frozen solid would have to be in that area. She was certain of it.

She was wheezing harder than ever as they made it to the forge, and as soon as they were close enough, she let go of her dragon and tried moving closer to a nearby anvil to lean upon. It was less than two steps to her left, but it was too hard. The moment she let go of Sōnar, her legs gave out from under her, and she tumbled face first into the cluster of grungy, brownish black snow caked in soot.

That was the last straw for Sōnar. She started hooting and flapping her wings wildly, not trying to fly so much as make lots of noise and kicking up snow to attract attention.

“N-No, st… stop! Q-Q-Quiet!” Struggling to sit up, Lyaella ignored the chill of the dirty snow clinging to her dress and crawled forward to beat her fist as hard as she could against Sōnar chest. It was the only sensitive area on a dragon’s body due to the lack of scales. She didn’t enjoy harming her dragon sister, but she needed Sōnar to shut up immediately. Her dragon might think she was helping, but attracting attention was not the right call. “P-Please…! St… S-Stop…!”

To her relief, Sōnar did stop, disgruntled by the little girl’s minor jabs, but not before the door to the Main Hall opened, revealing a handful of tired Baratheon soldiers. Whimpering fearfully, Lyaella quickly crawled further ahead, hiding around the opposite of the forge.

“Hey, you! Beast!” yelled an unknown voice. “You got a problem or something?! Shut up!”

“It’s been a long day! Quit your fucking roaring!” cried someone else. “We’re drunk and we’re tired!”

“Were it up to… to me, you flying snake…” said a rather unsteady third voice. “You and… and that bastard dragon girl would be—”

Sōnar snarled, baring her fangs. Lyaella shuddered, doing her best to quietly shush her despite how heavily she was wheezing. It was a miracle those men were drunk and didn’t take note of it. The only thing they noticed was Sōnar.

“Foul beast! I’ll… I’ll take you on with… with this!”

The first two voices chuckled and groaned “Do it tomorrow. When you don’t confuse your sword with that chicken bone.”

“Come on. Let’s be off with you.”

“What?! But… But I’m gonna kill me a… a dragon!”

“Tomorrow, all right? Come on.”

Lyaella wanted to breath a deep sigh of relief as she heard them all go up the walkways and a then door close somewhere, but it was getting harder and harder for her to take deep breaths. It was only exhausting her now that her chest hurt so much. Instead, she weakly waved her hand to get Sōnar to come over.

“H-Help me… up, Sōnar. Pl… P-Please…”

Sōnar warbled and bent her head down. Lyaella tried to use her as support, but as soon as she was up, her legs gave way again and she tumbled back down. Sōnar squawked worriedly again as she struggled to sit up, breathing even heavier now than before.

Lyaella shivered, cheeks flushing red from both the heavy exertion of it all along with the freezing temperature of all the snow. She wanted to assure Sōnar that she was still okay, but that’d be a lie at this point, and she was so breathy now she needed to save her words for when she absolutely needed them. She didn’t even try patting her dragon to calm her. She just tried to rising again, slower than before. But it was no use. Her strength left her right away and she fell into another mucky snow clump.

This time, she didn’t try to get up again, or even sit up. She just rolled over to be laying on her back and stayed there, staring up at the pitch black sky while panting desperately for air. Aside from reaching blindly around until she felt her dragon sisters’ scales, she didn’t try to do anything, not even wipe off the disgusting snow was staining her dress. To do anything right now would mean distracting her from breathing.

Every gasp was a battle.

Every wheeze was a struggle.

How long was she going to have to stay lying here in this snow bank until she got her strength back?

Fresh hot tears rolled down her cheeks and into her ears. She wanted to wipe them away, but it wasn’t worth the energy to move her hand. She sobbed, but that just made her cough out more gunk. She didn’t even try to wipe her face from the phlegm dribbling on the side of her mouth. She let her eyes droop, giving in to her exhaustion.

“T-Tor… Tory. Shadow…” she whispered. “F-Father…”

Perhaps she should just fall sleep right here. If she slept, she could dream that she was reunited with her beloved twin. And not only would they finally meet their amazing mother Daenerys Targaryen, but Jon Snow would actually like her and be excited when she introduced him to his lookalike in her brother. Yes, that was a good idea. She’d just sleep for awhile…

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Her eyes flew open, alarmed. What on earth—?

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Something was happening less than a few yards away from her. Was Sōnar acting up again, trying to call for help for her? She told her not to!

“S-Sōnar…? Wh… What’re y-you—?”

Her dragon warbled, sounding equally perplexed. Whatever was happening, it apparently wasn’t Sōnar’s doing.

It took every last bit of energy Lyaella still had left to sit up and look around. She was dazed, but at first glance she didn’t see anything different in her surroundings. Then she saw it, and she turned as white as her hair.

The door to the old, rickety shed, where the Night’s Watch kept an unknown monstrosity locked up. It was banging harshly from the inside against its metal padlock.

Her eyes bulged as she whimpered, trying with everything she had to crawl away. She’d been so focused on hiding from those soldiers, she’d forgotten about the shed she and Shireen had stumbled upon that first day she wandered around Castle Black. She’d forgotten about the monster. Her heart raced as she heard the beast inside yip repeatedly, clawing at the wood of the door. She could barely breathe, but somehow, she had to get away from here. Whatever that thing was, it sounded big. And it wanted out. She was as good as dead if she was still around if that busted out of there.

Ignoring the persistent growling and digging into the snow by the beast, Lyaella wheezed harder than ever as she tried to rise. “H… H-Help me, Sōnar…! Help!”

Hooting away, Sōnar nudged her up, offering her the chance to hold onto her neck. Lyaella reached, but she barely managed to make it up to her knees before her lungs gave way and she fell down in the snow. Rasping for breath, she tried again, but only got the same result.

More yips came from the shed, followed by furious panting and endless banging. Abandoning any hope of standing, she tried to crawl. Her chest was a vice, but she had to try. She hadn’t found her brother yet. She hadn’t even met her mother. She didn’t want to die being torn apart by some insane—

A crash of wood splintering apart erupted, and then there was silence. She heard Sōnar squawk in surprise, but Lyaella just shut her eyes and flopped back down in breathless resignation. So this was it. This was to be—

Quiet paws dashed across the snow, and a moment later frenzied panting resounded near her ear. Along with sniffing. Then, strangely enough, something hot and slimy started swiping its way across her cheek before a cold wet thing nudged her. What in the world?

Coughing lightly, she struggled to open her eyes. Standing directly in front of her was indeed a large, furry creature. A white one, to be exact. White as the snow in her name. With a wet black nose, a long pink tongue, and two red eyes boring down on her with obvious worry. The same red eyes that she knew Shadow had. That she remembered from a certain old, beautiful white wolf she and Torrhen desperately loved in their earliest memories before closing forever one ill-fated night.

“G… Ghost!” she rasped, a genuine smile spreading across her face as she looked up at the white direwolf. Her father’s direwolf. “It’s… I-It’s you…!”

Ghost licked her again, nudging her a bit with his black nose. Sōnar hooted, also recognizing the wolf. So he was what was locked away in that shed. Had she’d known it was him in there, she wouldn’t have been scared. He was her father’s dearest companion, and she remembered how smart he was. She’d been discretely searching for him here at Castle Black for awhile now. The only reason why she hadn’t asked where he was at was because she’d never heard anyone mention him by name, so she couldn’t think of a way to ask about him. He must’ve smelled her out here, smelled Jon’s scene mixed in with her own. Were she not sick right now, she’d be pampering him with kisses and hugs. She was so glad she—

Licking her again, the wolf suddenly turned and dashed away, not even sparing her or her dragon sister a second glance.

“H… H-Hey! W… Wait!” she rasped. “Ghost… G-Ghost, co… come back!”

* * *

“You’ve been staring into that mug for ages. You gonna drink that ale or not?”

“What…? Oh, no. No, you can have it. Here.”

“And what about your plate? You’ve haven’t touched anything.”

“Aye, I know. Just… got a lot on my mind.”

“Like how you snapped at the kid?”

“Edd.”

“What, Sam? We all know that’s the reason why he’s brooding away this time, after all.”

Jon sighed, shoving away the uneaten meal. Everyone else here in the Main Lodge was talking animatedly as they had dinner, but he had no appetite. He couldn’t even think about food right now.

Ever since he’d lost his temper and yelled at Lyaella earlier, he’d regretted it. He shouldn’t have snapped like that. He only wanted her to stop pestering him with those questions in front of everyone. He hadn’t meant to upset her, nor did he mean to alarm her in what she’d said about how her father died.

Running his hands through his hair, he turned away from his two friends and glanced over at Stannis’ party off to the side. His grace often chose for himself and his family to dine alone in their private chambers here at the Wall, but Princess Shireen had been quite insistent in eating out here with the rest of the Watch and her father’s soldiers tonight. The little girl had heard all about how Lyaella had gotten upset earlier, and despite how obviously enraged Queen Selyse was, Shireen was determined to sit out here for as long as it took until her friend appeared. She wanted to make sure she was okay.

Truth be told, that was the only reason why Jon had even come to dinner tonight. He needed to apologize to Lyaella, assure her that he hadn’t meant to insult her about what he’d said about her knowledge regarding Northern customs. Granted, Stannis had pulled him aside after she’d run off crying to the top of the Wall and explained how she’d already been upset prior to how he lost his temper with her, but the story the king provided Jon with only puzzled him more. He knew why he turned down Stannis’ offer — he was a man of the Night’s Watch, and he couldn’t forsake his vows — but what did Lyaella have against legitimization? And what was it about what Melisandre had told her that scared her so badly? A wisp of blood? The sentence sounded rather weird, but was so frightening about—?

A flurry of alarmed shouts and screams suddenly filled the room, followed swiftly by the whistling of steel as many soldiers in Stannis’ army drew their blades. Jon barely even had the chance to absorb the sudden change when a blur of white bounded straight towards the High Table where he was, diving underneath and launching itself upon him so hard, he fell out of his chair.

“What the—?!”

“The fuck—?!”

“Stay back, my lady, my princess!”

“Bloody wolf!”

_“SNOW!”_

It was madness, everyones screams, but Jon couldn’t focus on anyone. Not when Ghost had somehow broken out of the shed, bounded straight in here, and for reasons unknown was frantically clawing and nipping away at his arm.

“Ghost, stop — stop that!” he yelled, wrenching his arm free and getting back up. “What are you—?!”

His direwolf snarled, now trying to bite away at his leg. As soon as he sank his teeth into his britches, he tried to drag him off. Jon stumbled forward, doing his best to shake him away.

“Seven hells, Lord Snow!” roared Thorne from across the room, his face reddening in his rage. “I told you that wolf was a danger here!”

“Lord Commander! What is that thing?!” Stannis demanded, quickly joining Davos and the rest of the soldiers in shielding the startled Selyse, wide-eyed Shireen, and rapidly blinking Melisandre behind him.

Jon couldn’t even answer the king. Ghost had abandoned his leg, bolted away a few feet, then stopped to whip around and look at him. He howled at the top of his lungs, so loud in fact that many were forced to cover their ears. Jon just jerked back, alarmed. It was so rare for Ghost to make any sound other than the occasional whine or furious growl. Why was he—?

He growled again, then bounded back up to him and bit down on his cloak. This time, Jon was literally dragged at least three feet away from his chair before he grabbed onto the edge of the table, preventing himself from moving further. “Ghost, enough! What — What’re you—?!”

And then again, Ghost released him, dashed away a couple feet, and howled at him. Then ran right back and tried all over again.

“Jon! What’s… What’s happening here?!” Sam called out, passing Little Sam to Gilly and urging her to get behind him. “What’s he doing?!”

Jon just numbly shook his head. He’d never seen Ghost act like this before. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say his friend was trying desperately to make him follow him…

Ignoring everyone, he let go of the table and slowly followed his direwolf when he took off running once more.

“Snow!”

“Jon?”

“Lord Commander, do not ignore me! I demand a full explanation!”

Jon didn’t even register anything Thorne, Sam, or Stannis said. He just obediently followed his direwolf across the room and out the door. There was no way Ghost would be acting like this if something serious wasn’t going on. In the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware that everyone else was following him.

As soon as they were out in the courtyard, Ghost bolted off towards the forge, kicking up clouds of snow in his rush. On the opposite side of the smithy, Jon could make out the shape of Lyaella’s dragon lingering about. It was warbling constantly at something on the ground that he couldn’t see, but when Ghost reached the dragon, it’s head snapped around, noticing them all at last. Immediately, it emerged fully from behind the forge and started trilling loudly while frantically flapping its wings.

Everyone else recoiled in terror.

“Damn that dragon!” a random Stormlander shouted. “What’s it want?!”

Jon only shrugged, having no answer. He was pretty alarmed himself, but why was Ghost running over to that beast when it was clearly on edge? He hoped the dragon wouldn’t start spitting fire. Ghost would be gone forever if that happened.

“Stay back, my lady!”

“Princess!”

“Shireen, get back here this instant!”

Stannis’ daughter disregarded the soldiers and her mother’s cries and quickly shoved her way through the crowd until she was standing right beside him. She didn’t seem frightened at all anymore. If anything, the princess appeared puzzled. “Sōnar? Sōnar, what’s wrong?” she called out. “Why’re you acting like that?”

The white and blue dragon hooted excitedly at the sight of Shireen, a few embers escaping from its mouth as it moved a few paces closer. Ghost then reappeared from behind the forge, his red eyes boring directly into Jon from across the courtyard.

He felt a tugging on his cloak suddenly and looked down. Shireen was gazing up at him, her brown eyes shining with obvious worry. “I’m not sure where that giant white wolf over there came from,” she murmured, biting her lip, “but… but I’ve spent a lot of time with Lyaella’s dragon in the library. She… She wouldn’t act that way for no reason…”

Jon thickly swallowed, slowly glancing back to the forge. He’d been avoiding the dragon as much as possible, so he didn’t anything about that, but he knew Ghost. His wolf was definitely trying to tell him something.

“Shireen! Get back!” screamed Queen Selyse. She, Stannis, and Stannis advisers shoved their way through the crowd, yanking the little girl away. But despite her generally sweet nature, the child was a Baratheon, and she fought tooth and nail against the tight grips of all the hands restraining with all the fury of her House’s words.

“L-Let go of me!” she screamed. “I wanna see w-what’s wrong with—!”

“Lord Commander, what’re you doing?!”

Jon disregarded Stannis’ question and trudged forward. All across Castle Black, those who hadn’t been at dinner and were loitering about in other areas of the rundown fort were poking their heads out from numerous doors to see what was happening, and from the various cells and storerooms that they’d been keeping Tormund and the rest of the Free Folk locked up, they all peered out curiously from between the cell bars or storeroom windows.

“King Crow!” he heard his former friend among the Free Folk shout. “I’ve always known yeh’re as mad as fuck, but I never took yeh for suicidal! That dragon’s gonna roast yer bloody balls off!”

Jon ignored Tormund the same way he ignored Stannis. They could all call him a fool if they wanted for approaching the agitated dragon, but Ghost was trying to tell him something. There was no way his direwolf would be so adamant for him to follow him over there if something wasn’t wrong.

Still, he stopped momentarily as he neared the dragon, very nervous. The dragon squawked, impatient. It’s blue eyes stared straight into his as it continuously jerked its head, trying to beckon him to go to the very back of the forge. Jon didn’t know why, but for some reason he could swear he could sense something coming from the dragon. It almost felt like… fear?

Ghost whined at him, then turned and trotted back behind the forge. Moments later, he stuck his head back out, gazing directly at him.

Everyone in the background was yelling for him to either get back or to explain what was going on, but their shouts were nothing more than a far-off buzz to Jon’s ears. Something wasn’t right here. What were Ghost and Lyaella’s dragon trying to tell him?

Then he heard it. The telltale sound of someone hacking their lungs out, followed by a weak groan.

Jon jerked. Forgetting everything he shot past the dragon and poked his head around the forge. His eyes boggled.

 _“Lyaella!”_ he shouted, rushing forward. The little girl was sprawled out face-first in a small snowdrift, barely moving. Her dress and cloak were a mess, covered in the grungy remnants of mucked up sleet and slush. Had someone tried to hurt her? He’d be executing someone else tonight if they did. He made it clear to the Night’s Watch on his election that Thorne’s rules regarding Lyaella Snow were still in effect even if he was in charge now. If someone broke those rules by trying to kill her or worse… more heads would be rolling before dawn, make no mistake about that.

Squatting down, he carefully flipped her over, scanning her from head to toe for any obvious injuries. Her face was a vivid shade of scarlet and she was panting, but she didn’t appear hurt at first glance. Still, anything was possible with the men here in the Night’s Watch…

“What’s wrong?! Did someone try to hurt you?!”

She just gazed up at him with half-lidded eyes, struggling to focus. “J… J-Jon…?”

Her words were barely louder than a whisper, but at least she was conscious. That was something, if nothing else. “What happened, Lyaella?! Talk to me!”

Tears flooded her eyes as she struggled to find her words, her tiny chest slowly rising with each heavy breath. “I… I…”

He shook her harder, desperate to keep her awake. “Lyaella!”

Footsteps pounded in the snow behind him. Multiple footsteps. Seconds later, he heard several gasps and one frantic scream.

“L-Lyaella!” shrieked Shireen, flinging herself down next to him and shaking her even harder than he had. “Lyaella, what’s wrong?!”

“Seven hells…” he heard Stannis murmur, sounding just as shocked as Jon felt. “Is she all right?”

Davos mutely shook his head, whipping off his cloak and he joined Jon and Shireen on the ground. As he bundled up the shivering child, Thorne quickly turned to all the onlookers. “Someone here better fess up! Who attacked the Targaryen child?!”

Jon heard murmurs of denial from the onlookers, but he ignored them all. Other than glancing up when Ghost and her dragon approached with an anxious whine and sorrowful warble, he kept his attention focused solely on Lyaella. His mind was racing as he struggled to recall who hadn’t been at dinner tonight. Were any of those men known killers? Known molesters?

With as much politeness as he could, he gently nudged the sobbing princess out of the way to carefully tuck his arm under Lyaella’s shoulders, propping her up a bit. Her hand flew to her chest at the sudden movement, and she broke out into a fit of disgusting coughs. Stunned, he slowly swept the strands of silver hair hanging in her face aside, not at all sure what else to do. It was a good thing he did though, because strands of spit soon expelled from her mouth.

Thorned gaped, but Stannis and Davos ignored their own shock to try dragging Shireen out of the way. She ignored her father and the smuggler though, batting away their hands as she blinked repeatedly.

Jon bit his lip, his stomach rolling. Something wasn’t right. If she’d been attacked, why wasn’t she bleeding? Why wasn’t she black and blue with bruises? Her dress and cloak were filthy, but there were no rips or tears. No signs of a struggle. And even if she’d been attacked, she wouldn’t be coughing like that. What… What exactly was happening here?

Swallowing thickly despite his dry mouth, Jon gently nudged her again. “L-Lyaella…?” he asked, his voice quavering.

She moaned, wheezing hard. “Wa… W-Water…” she breathlessly rasped. “Water… C-Can’t… Can’t bre—” she stopped, hacking up her lungs again, as more spit came out. Only this time, a small bit landed on him, and he definitely saw a huge chunk of phlegm mixed in.

Disgust didn’t even cross his mind. Understanding coursed through him, his heart pounding wildly. _“Sam!”_ he yelled, whipping back to the crowd. _“Sam — get Maester Aemon!”_

“What—? But — But he retired early — said he didn’t feel well—”

_“Wake him, now! That’s an order!”_

Shoving Shireen aside, he scrambled to his feet and scooped the little girl up in his arms. Barely even looking at the few surrounding him, he cradled the Lyaella to his chest as he bolted to the walkways leading up to Maester Aemon’s private solar. Many in the crowd were loitering around there and he was prepared to scream at them all to clear a path, but Sōnar and Ghost were right on his heels, roaring and growling at everyone to force them to move aside. That did the trick, and people rapidly leapt aside as he dashed past. As soon as they got a good look at Lyaella’s condition, their expressions turned from confused to alarmed.

Jon barely even saw them in his rush. The only things he could focus on was the round figure of his friend scrambling up the walkway just ahead of him as he banged repeatedly on Maester Aemon’s door, and the choked gasps Lyaella struggled to make as she squirmed in his arms.

He didn’t know what was happening with her, but it was clear she needed help. And he’d make sure she’d get it.


	12. A Wolf's Recovery, A Dragon's Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I'm back! I am so, so sorry for how long it has taken me to finish this next chapter, especially after leaving you all hanging with such a nail biting cliffhanger! I never intended for this chapter to take so long to get online and I cannot stress enough just how sorry I am for the long wait you've all been forced to endure. If you've been keeping up with the newly added comments here on Ao3, I'm sure you've seen that I've been replying to people's inquiries about when I would finally update again, and I finally finished my big digital painting for MerMay month, and the delay for this chapter was due to trying to complete a second digital painting for an illustration contest submission deadline of July 15th. I devoted all my efforts into completing that painting in time, but at this point, it looks like I probably won't be able to finish it by the submission date. Oh well... I still intend to finish it, but I won't be focusing solely on my artwork anymore. I'm now going to devote my time to half writing, half artwork! Once again, I apologize for the long delay in this next chapter!
> 
> Also, if you want to view my big digital painting for MerMay, you can find it on DeviantArt! My username on there is Totoro939. I don't have much uploaded in my art account yet, but as soon as I finish my current digital painting, that will uploaded on there, too! Please, feel free to comment on my artwork or to follow me if you like my art style! ;D
> 
> However, I also would like to take a moment to give a shout out to the following people online:
> 
> Longclaw 1-6 and GreedofRage -- Thank you both for your help with this chapter! The little bits of writer's block that I endured when writing two scenes in this chapter I would probably STILL be struggling with if you guys hadn't helped me out, so thank you both!
> 
> The Twitter users: @amorousclarke and @joneryswhore -- I recently informed by one of my reviwers here on Ao3 that both of these Twitter accounts are fans of my story and have been advertising my story to their followers! I don't know if they're reading the story here on Ao3 or on FF, but if they or any of their followers are reading the story on this site, then allow me to take this time to say welcome to my fanfic and I'm thrilled you all love my story! I read several Twitter conversations about my story on your account threads, and I'm touched and flattered that you all love my story so much! I would have replied to those threads, but my Twitter account is my real life name, and I don't want to give that out, lol! So yeah, I'm thanking you all for your virtual love on this site instead of commenting directly on Twitter! :D
> 
> Now, onto the story stats! 459 kudos, 118 bookmarks, 13320 views, and we DOMINATED the comment goal this time! WE HIT 270 COMMENTS!!! THAT'S 40 MORE COMMENTS SINCE THE LAST CHAPTER!!! I'M JUST BLOW AWAY BY THAT FACT! 40 MORE COMMENTS!!! THANK YOU, MY LOYAL FANS! THANK YOU! Now, what should this chapter's comment goal be...? Hmm... I've got it! Let's strive for 300 this time around! That's only 30 more comments, ten less than the last chapter. I think we can do that, don't you all agree? I'll keep my fingers crossed!
> 
> Okay, I think that's all for now. I've kept you all waiting long enough for this chapter, after all! ;D
> 
> Enjoy the chapter, and please leave a nice comment when you're done!
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> \- Elphaba818

"Goodness, Sam! What seems to be—?"

"Maester Aemon, we have an emergency! We need your help! _Now!_ _"_

"An emergency? Is someone hur—?"

Jon nearly knocked his friend over in his mad scramble to get into the workroom. Coherent thoughts were beyond his comprehension, and the only thing he could focus on was getting the wheezing little girl in his arms front of Maester Aemon. "Lyaella — found her — she's — she's not—"

A hoarse cough cut him off as Lyaella squirmed in his arms. "W… W-Water…" she moaned. "I… I just n-need wa… water…"

He shifted his grip, struggling to keep a firm grasp on her small form. "It's okay, Lyaella. You're — You're gonna be okay!"

"N-No… I-I-I don't… I don't want…" she coughed again, clapping her hand back over her mouth.

Maester Aemon was suddenly wide awake, and Jon jumped when he appeared in front of him. With furrowed brows, Maester Aemon felt around for Lyaella's head, softly stroking her hair as he bent down to bring his ear close to her face. Lyaella breathlessly gasped at his sudden appearance, and tried her best to hold her breath and stop panting.

"Lyaella?"

"I… I'm j-just a… a little b-breath… breathless. I'm fi… f-fine—" she coughed harder, unable to finish.

He frowned. Straightening up, he quickly turned and shuffled as fast as he could to his medicinal cabinet. "Take her to the bed, Lord Commander. Prop up pillows behind her. Tarly? Add more logs onto the fire. Start boiling water."

They didn't hesitate to comply. Jon didn't care he was technically Lord Commander now and no longer required to carry out steward tasks. For some reason, he felt like he had to be in here right now, helping Sam and Maester Aemon take care of her. Maybe it was out of guilt for snapping at her earlier. Maybe it was because Ghost led him to finding her. Whatever the case, he wasn't leaving. Not unless Maester Aemon ordered him out.

Ignoring how much Lyaella was squirming, he set her down in her small bed before rushing to collect the pillows on Maester Aemon's bed. As he went to prop up them up behind her, she shook her head and tried batting them away. "No. I d-don't… I don't need th—" she cut herself off, doubling over as her hand flew to her mouth. Chunks of gunky phlegm covered her palm when she finally lowered it. "Water… J-Just… Just need water…"

Jon disregarded her. Seizing her wrists, he gently tugged her forward so he could stack up the cushions. "Don't worry, you're gonna be fine. Maester Aemon will get you some medicine and—"

" _N-No!"_ she croaked, jamming her elbow into his side. Startled, he let her go just as Sam spun around in alarm, nearly dropping the extra firewood he'd gathered in his surprise. Maester Aemon even stopped sifting through various herbs for a moment to listen in. Lyaella whimpered guiltily, but she didn't glance up at them. She just kept one hand cupped over her mouth for more coughs and the other pressed firmly against her chest. "No… No medicine! I-I'm fi… I'm fine!"

He didn't know what to think, but when he saw her swing her legs over the edge of the bed and try to stand, he snapped out of it.

"L-Lyaella, no!" Jon tried to gently push her back, but she automatically struggled, and he had no choice but to grasp her shoulders tighter. "You — You need to rest! M-Maester Aemon will—"

" _N-No! No… No medicine!"_

Pounding footsteps echoed from outside, and then the door flew open. Two blurs of white shot into the workroom, and then a small, hysterical girl dressed in pink appeared in the doorway.

"Lyaella!" screamed Princess Shireen, scrambling inside. She tried shoving past Sam to follow Sōnar and Ghost to Lyaella's bedside, but Stannis and Davos were right behind her and had to physically pull her back out. The princess fought viciously against her father and the old smuggler to get back in. "No, l-let go! I wanna see Lyaella!"

"Shireen, no!"

"You can see her later, princess! The maester must focus on treating her right now!"

Shireen was sobbing and still trying to break free to rush back in, but Jon couldn't focus on them. His attention was on the equally hysterical little girl in his arms who'd tried taking advantage of the distraction to wrestle away from him. She coughed harder, her eyes glistening from the exertion of it all.

"Lyaella—!"

"I… I'm fi… fine! D-Don't need any—!" she suddenly went wide eyed, doubling over again as she expelled more mucus. Sōnar hooted worriedly, nudging her cheek with her snout, and Ghost whined, rubbing up against Jon's legs as he gazed up at the sick girl. Jon didn't know why Ghost had taken such an interest in Lyaella when she hadn't been near his direwolf since she arrived, but it was clear his wolf and her dragon could sense she really wasn't fine.

Gilly then arrived, shuffling past the Baratheon party to join Jon in trying to force her back into bed. "L-Lyaella, it's — it's all right!" the former Wildling cried, soothingly stroking her silver hair. "Yer sick! Maester Aemon will—"

" _No t-tonic! No owl's blood!"_

A hush fell over the room, but Lyaella was too hysterical to notice. She kept flailing and thrashing desperately to escape, oblivious of how everyone was staring at her.

Jon's mind was blank as he did his best to keep a firm grip on her. Owl's blood? What was she talking about? "Lyaella—?"

She coughed again, still frantically trying to break away. "N-No! No, no, no!" she wailed. "I w-won't — won't drink that tonic! No!"

Gilly blinked, exchanging a perplexed look with Sam. "Tonic? What're you—? Ah!"

"Let go of me!" she screamed, whacking her small fist into Gilly's side. "Let go!"

"Lyaella, stop! Stop that!" Jon demanded, clutching her shoulders tighter. It didn't matter if he had to hold her down so harshly it left her with bruises. He couldn't let her keep hitting Gilly. But for a little girl who was generally as meek and quiet as a mouse, she was certainly strong. It took everything he had to keep her on the bed.

A hoot echoed near his ear, and Jon jumped when a large, scaly white and blue head appeared in the corner of his eye. Sōnar paid no attention to him though, and only crooned worriedly at her silver-haired mistress. Ghost whined, pushing past Jon to get up by Lyaella's face and lick away her tears. Lyaella definitely calmed down a bit by their comfort, but before she could pet them, her eyes shot wide and she slapped her and over her mouth as phlegm escaped her with another strong cough. Her other hand clutched the fabric of her dress over her chest so tightly, her fist turned white as she moaned.

The floorboards creaked, and Jon glanced up as Maester Aemon shuffled slowly across the room, his expression neutral. Lyaella also saw him approach, and quickly started wriggling again. Jon grounded his teeth, patience wearing thin. "Lyaella, stop!"

"I — I j-just need water! Ple… Please! Just water!"

"Yeh need more than water, Lyaella!" Gilly insisted, now trying to pin down Lyaella's frantically kicking legs. She ended up getting a strong blow to her ear before throwing herself over Lyaella's knees. "Yer — Yer not breathin' right! Yeh need medicine!"

With a strangled scream, Lyaella thrashed, and Jon yelped as she managed to wrench her arm free and sock him right in the jaw — not that she even realized she did before clawing frantically at his grasp on her other arm. _"No m-medicine! No owl's blood! No, no, n—!"_ she broke out coughing so fast, she couldn't even cover her mouth this time. Mucus flew past her lips and landed on his chest.

As much as Jon wanted to wipe off the phlegm on his tunic, he didn't dare. If he loosened his grip at all, she'd easily break free and it would take them ages to get her back on the bed. For a long moment, Jon stared helplessly at Sam and Gilly, unsure what to say or do to get her to cooperate. Sam was frozen in shock over by the fireplace and could only spare him a disbelieving shrug, while Gilly didn't even notice his stare due to how much she was struggling with Lyaella's legs. Jon was at a loss. What was up with this girl? She was sick. She needed treatment, yet she refused to go along with it. But why? They were only trying to help her!

Did she not want their help because she was like other mentally ill Targaryen's? Was… Was she possibly _mad?_

Maester Aemon then reached them, his unseeing eyes staring blankly ahead at the wall as he felt around for Lyaella's teary cheek. "Tonic? Owl's blood?" he asked.

She whimpered, rasping for breath as she wriggled away from his touch. "W-Won't… drink it! I won't!" she wailed. "I'd… I'd rather stay like this! No tonic! No b-blood and… and wine!"

Jon's eyes boggled, and he had to shift his grip to stop her when she nearly scratched Maester Aemon's hand. This was getting out of hand. She wasn't just getting violent towards him and Gilly now, she was even trying to attack Maester Aemon! Her own Targaryen relative! And what on earth was she talking about? A tonic of blood and wine? What delusion was she experiencing that made her believe they'd ever try to make her drink something like _that?_ And to believe so wholeheartedly that they would force her to take something like that she'd rather keep rasping for breath like she was right now? What insanity was going through her head?

Maester Aemon simply furrowed his brows. Patting her cheek one last time, he turned to face Sam's general direction. "Tarly."

Sam jumped. "M-Maester Aemon?"

"Go to my work table. Find the corked bottle on the left side of the shelf above it. Pour out a spoonful's worth and bring it here."

Sam blinked at the directions, but quickly dumped the logs into the hearth before scrambling to fulfill them. Lyaella however just seemed to become even more hysterical. Gilly had to swallow a whimper as Lyaella's knee knocked into her chin, and Jon grit his teeth and moved his arm away from her mouth when she tried snapping at him. He didn't care what Sam was bringing over. So long as it was medicine and they made Lyaella drank it before she got any worse, that was fine. He just wanted her to take whatever medicine Aemon decided to give her and be done with it already.

Finally, Sam approached them with a spoonful of thick, white liquid. "I-I-I have it hear, Maester Aemon!"

Maester Aemon nodded in approval, then turned back to Lyaella. "I don't want to have to give you this, Lyaella, but you must calm down. I assure you I won't—"

A fitful sob cut him off, and Lyaella shook her head with another cough. "No! N-No medicine! I won't… I won't s-swallow that!"

"Lyaella—"

" _No!"_

Despite how he couldn't see how she thrashed and fought against Jon and Gilly, the maester sighed before turning to them. "I need both of you to hold her steady, Lord Commander, Gilly. I need her to swallow this if I'm to have any chance at helping her. She must not spit it out."

Jon's stomach twisted uneasily, and judging by how Gilly bit her lip and Sam glanced down nervously at the spoon, they weren't entirely comfortable about this either. But what choice did they have?

Shoving away his misgivings, Jon readjusted his grip on her arms as Gilly grasped her legs more firmly. But Lyaella thrashed, wailing as loud as she could despite her constant coughing. She was fighting with every fiber of her being to get away.

"N-No…! No, medicine!" she wheezed, her tears cascading down her cheeks. "No… No tonic!"

Sam shuddered, the spoon trembling in his grasp. Gulping thickly, he reached out to her with his free hand. "L-Lyaella, please. I… I don't want to force—"

She choked on the air, violently shaking her head across the pillows. "N… No! Don't g-give me tonic! No blood…! N-No wine!"

Jon mutely shook his head, utterly dumbfounded. She was past reasoning, completely hysterical. There were no other options. The only way they could get her to drink that medicine was to force feed it to her.

Sucking in a breath, he glanced up at Sam and firmly nodded. Sam grimaced, but silently leaned over and pinned Lyaella's head down to stop her from moving away. She fruitlessly struggled, pressing her lips together firmly as her chest quivered from the sudden lack of air flowing into her body.

"Lyaella, please!" Jon murmured, giving her a small shake. "Open your mouth!"

Unable to shake her head she simply stayed silent, her face quickly puffing red as she forced herself not to breath. Fresh tears flowed down her face dribbling into her ears, but she still wouldn't budge. She quivered from the lack of oxygen, but it didn't matter. She refused to open her mouth.

Sam froze, unsure whether to try forcing the spoon past her lips or not, but then Sōnar started warbling and nudging her with her snout as Ghost whined, butting his head against her hand. Lyaella did her best to ignore them, but it was too much and soon she was gasping for breath again. Sam didn't hesitate to thrust the spoon in her mouth.

Lyaella squealed and tried spitting it out, but Sam put his hand over her mouth. She moaned, her discomfort obvious, but he didn't dare move his hand away until they saw her throat bob as she reluctantly swallowed the mixture. She rasped desperately and tried to speak, but within seconds her eyes started drooping, and her struggling gradually lessened. Jon blinked, puzzled, but before he could do anything, her strength sapped away and she was out like a light.

Gilly slowly released her and stood up, but Jon only blinked again. "What happened? What did you give her?"

"Relax, Lord Commander. 'Twas only a spoonful of Milk of the Poppy," Maester Aemon assured him. "It's just so she can sleep while I treat her. She was too wound up and scared to listen to us."

Smiling sadly, he ran his fingers through her silver tresses before heading back to his worktable. "Tarly? Has the water finished boiling, yet?"

Sam jumped, almost dropping the spoon. "N-Nearly! It's steaming, now!"

"How much?"

"What?"

"How much is it steaming?"

Sam blinked. "Um, well it's only a few tendrils of steam…"

Maester Aemon reached over to the right side of the shelf, feeling around until his fingers looped around the handle of a heavily dented black kettle. "Pour some of it in here, but leave the rest in that pot. Throw a few more logs in the grate when you're done."

"Maester?"

"That water's warm enough now for the tea I must brew, but the rest of that water must be hotter," he explained, setting the kettle down and now reaching for a particular herb in a glass container on the table. "She needs to inhale lots of steam to help clear out those lungs, and keeping her warm will also help."

"Oh. Right away, Maester Aemon."

As Sam collected the kettle, Jon gently set Lyaella down against the pillows and swiftly bundled her up in the fur blankets. Gilly collected more blankets on the other bed too, so he went over to the log pile to gather the firewood. She was still wheezing despite being out cold, so if wrapping her up in blankets and throwing extra wood on the fire were the only things he could do to help right now, he'd do it. It was his fault she was so sick, after all. If he hadn't had snapped at her earlier, she wouldn't have gone running to the top of the Wall and gotten so cold. Jon didn't have a clue as to what being cold had to do with her barely breathing, but whatever the case, he had to make this right. However he could help, he would.

"Gilly, would you bring me the tin cup on the bedside table?" Maester Aemon requested, now feeling around for another bottle on the shelf. "And I think my mortar and pestle are in my trunk. Could you bring them to me?"

"Oh, uh… just a moment!" she replied. Draping the blankets over Lyaella's small frame, she passed him the cup before scurrying to the small chest in the back-most corner. "Here yeh, go, Maester Aemon."

"Thank you, my dear."

No one said a word as he ground up the herbs. Jon only hoped they could somehow ease Lyaella's wheezing and coughing. Adding them into into the kettle, Maester Aemon mixed the blend together for a short time with a large spoon, then poured some out into the waiting cup.

"What's that?" Jon asked, watching he went back over to Lyaella with the cup. "What're you giving her?"

"Ginger root tea with a dash of mint," he replied, tilting her head back and guiding the rim of the cup to her lips. "It's not much, but it should help break up the mucus in her lungs. Ease her coughing somewhat and lessen the chest pain, if nothing else."

With utmost care, Maester Aemon poured the tea into Lyaella's mouth. Luckily, she swallowed it all, though she remained unconscious. Her pinched expression slowly relaxed the more she gulped down the remedy. By the time it was all gone, she was still breathing somewhat heavier than normal, but she wasn't rasping desperately as she had been before either. It was a definite improvement.

"Will she be all right?" asked Sam.

Maester Aemon nodded, smiling. "She'll need some time to relax and shouldn't go out in the cold air for a few days, but she should be fine. The best thing for her right now is to get plenty of rest, though someone should stay with her for now in case her breathing worsens again."

"I can sit with her," Gilly offered. "I don't mind. Someone… Someone should get her outta that dress anyway. It's filthy. I finished sewin' her a pair of britches and tunic earlier for her sword lessons. I'll put her in that and wash her dress and cloak tomorrow."

"Thank you, Gilly. Also, if it's not too much trouble, you might want to consider knitting her a scarf right now."

"A scarf?"

He nodded, his expression carefully neutral. "I have a theory as to what's wrong with her, but I won't know for sure until she wakes and I can examine her properly. If I'm right, she should be wearing a scarf at all times when out in the cold."

Jon exchanged a quizzical look with Sam, but Gilly only stared at him with equal confusion. Clearing her throat lightly, she slowly nodded, only to stop upon remembering his blindness. "All right, I'll do what I can. Be right back."

Nodding stiffly, she hurried to the door. The moment she opened it, however, various voices and shouts cut through the air as sharp as a knife.

"I wanna see Lyaella! She's sick!"

"They need to tend to her right now, Shireen. You can't go in."

"You're not going in, period!"

"But Mother—!"

"She's a Targaryen bastard girl with a dragon! She's dangerous! And _mad!_ _"_

"No, she's not! She's my friend!"

"Well you're friendship with her ends now! You're never going to be alone with her or that beast of hers again!"

"Selyse—"

"No, Stannis! I know you are the king, and I honor you as such, but I will _not_ allow our daughter to remain in the company of someone who's both insane and an obvious threat to your claim!"

"I agree with the queen, your grace!"

"Yes, she's right!"

"We all heard her right now! She's a mad dragon and probably planning to burn us all and drink our blood!"

A stone fell in Jon's stomach as he listened to all the shouts of agreement. He'd been in such a rush to get Lyaella help, he forgot about the crowd out in the courtyard when he grabbed her and bolted up here. Judging by the sound of things, both the Night's Watch _and_ the Stormlands army seemed to share similar opinions regarding Lyaella's current mental state.

Throwing one last look over his shoulder at Lyaella, Jon fixed his face into a neutral mask and strolled outside. Sure enough, the crowd was in an uproar as people bantered back and forth regarding Lyaella's condition, but the main show was centered around the Baratheon royal family. Shireen was fighting against her father's restraining hands as her mother stooped down to her level to look her right in the eye. Davos and Melisandre stood a few paces behind them, both of them wearing mirrored looks of worry for once as they watched the argument unfold.

He'd just reached the stairs when he caught sight of an unusually ugly scowl on the princess' face. "I only want to see if she's all right, Mother! I've never seen her like that before! She's sick!"

"Sick or not, you're not going in there! You're not to go anywhere near her, that dragon, and whatever other monstrosities are locked up here at Castle Black again!"

Shireen stamped her foot, her cheeks reddening in her rage. "Sōnar's not a monster, and I've never seen that giant wolf before! But even so, they'veshowed more kindness and affection to Lyaella tonight than you've ever shown me in my entire life!"

"Shireen!" Stannis snapped, temper flaring. "Apologize to your mother! Right now!"

Her head whipped up, hot and angry tears shining in her eyes. "Why should I, Father?! It's the truth! Lyaella's a good person! Kind! She's been nicer to me than Mother's ever been!"

_Smack!_

Jon's steps faltered as he pushed his way through the crowd. It took everything he had to swallow the gasp in his throat, though others had no qualms about staying silent. It was one thing to see Queen Selyse reprimand Princess Shireen with a few cross words in public. It was another to see her slap the little girl's greyscale-scarred cheek for daring to raise her voice.

"Selyse!"

"Don't give me that look, Stannis! I will not stay silent as she acts so sinfully! Have you ever heard our daughter speak this way before?! No! If anything, her behavior proves my point — that bastard child is a terrible influence!"

Stannis' expression hardened. Not daring to break his gaze with his raging wife, he motioned for Davos and Melisandre to pull the whimpering Shireen aside. His hand and adviser didn't dare hesitate to carry out this silent order. Silently, Davos wrapped at arm around the princess' shoulders, and Shireen trembled from head to toe with suppressed sobs Melisandre motioned them to follow her to a cluster of barrels a short ways off.

This was about to turn ugly fast. It was none of Jon's business how the Baratheon monarchs dealt with marital quarrels, but at the very least they shouldn't happen out here, in front of the rest of the Night's Watch. If they chose to fight in front of their own army and daughter, that was their choice, but as the new Lord Commander of the Night's Watch it was his duty to get them to move this fight into the privacy of their own chambers.

Clearing his throat, he stepped past the last handful of people blocking his path and approached. "Your graces, perhaps it would be better if—"

The queen whipped around, Baratheon fury blazing in her eyes. "Lord Commander Snow! I expect now you will finally do what needs to be done with that demon child and that… that _beast!_ _"_ she spat. "You'll finally listen to what I've been saying since the moment she arrived! Kill her and be done with it!"

Jon's eyes narrowed. "I will do no such thing, your grace," he said firmly. "Lyaella is the ward of the Night's Watch. She has done nothing wrong and is also very sick."

"Wrong or not, she's a danger to everyone here with that dragon! And she is sick — sick in the head!" she screamed. "Everyone heard her in there! She thinks she's going to drink blood?! Lunacy, complete lunacy! She's a mad Targaryen bastard, and I will not allow my daughter to be burned alive by that monster for whatever delusions she has!"

To Jon's dismay, people slowly started nodded in the crowd. Only a handful at first, but then a fair majority started voicing their agreement.

"Knew it. Knew it all along."

"Mad, right from the start!"

"Bloodsucker, that girl! Sickening!"

"Worse than the Mad King! She's one step away from that cannibal Wildling tribe!"

"It's clear which side her Targaryen coin flip landed on!"

"She's gonna burn us all! Burn us and suck the blood outta our corpses!"

It was turning into complete pandemonium. Both the Night's Watch and the Baratheon soldiers were in agreement that Lyaella was indeed insane. Insane and dangerous after listening to her screaming a few minutes ago. Jon thickly swallowed, not sure what to do. He knew he had to quell the crowd before they all tried yelling for someone to run upstairs and slit her throat, but he was at a loss on what to say in Lyaella's defense. He couldn't blame everyone for thinking she was mad considering he'd thought the same thing back in the workroom. How was he supposed to fix this?

"That's enough. There will be no talk whatsoever about Targaryen madness in Lyaella Snow. Not while I still live and breathe."

Everyone turned. Descending down the wooden walkway steps was Maester Aemon, being escorted by Sam. He moved slowly due to his blindness and old age, but in the several years that Jon had been acquainted with the former Targaryen prince, he'd never seen such a hardened look on his face. Every muscle in Maester Aemon's face was fixed with surprising fierceness. If he could still see, Jon suspected that he'd be glaring harshly at everyone who'd been declaring Lyaella insane, especially Queen Selyse. Sure enough, Maester Aemon must have told Sam in advance to take him directly to the Baratheon queen, because they strolled unhurriedly through to the crowd and went straight to her.

But Queen Selyse was not so easily intimidated, especially not by old, blind men who needed to be escorted around by others. "I have no quarrel with you, maester. You are bound to the vows of the Watch and have no more claim to my husband's throne than any other man here. You couldn't be less of a threat even if you tried to leave. But that child? She's a bastard with a dragon that refuses to tell anyone where she came from! For all we know, she's lying about actually being a Snow and having a missing brother! She could be lying about having cruel relatives that tried to kill them! She's obviously insane after everything she was screaming about now! I will not allow her to use that dragon to harm my daughter! I will not!"

"I understand you're worried about your daughter's safety, your grace, but I assure you Lyaella Snow is no more mad than she is a liar."

"Are you deaf as well as blind?! She was screaming about drinking owl's blood! That proves that she's—!"

"—proves that she wasn't lying about growing up in a potentially bad home life. That was not madness back there that we all witnessed. That was terror from long term child abuse."

Jon jerked, blinking repeatedly. Silence filled the courtyard as everyone stared at Maester Aemon. Stannis' lips parted at the revelation and he chanced a quick glance over his shoulder at Davos and Melisandre before flicking his eyes to his wife.

Selyse was definitely caught off guard by the unexpected response, but she swiftly recovered. "I beg your pardon?"

Immune to all the looks of disbelief and confusion being thrown his way, Maester Aemon continued. "Exactly as I said, your grace. Lyaella might have been uncontrollable back there and beyond reason, but once she mentioned the owl's blood, her behavior was understandable. She's only a child, and considering how sick she was right now, it's natural she'd assume we'd… I'll have to talk to her later, insist she tells me the maester who's been giving her that remedy. The Citadel will have his chain for this!" he murmured to himself, shaking his head in suppressed fury. "She's just a child! She's not Aerys himself!"

The Baratheon Queen looked completely lost now, but Jon's attention was diverted to Sam as he felt his friend's eyes flick over to him. Sharing matched looks of confusion, Jon stepped closer as Sam hesitantly cleared his throat.

"Maester Aemon?"

"What do you mean? You're… You're not making any sense."

Maester Aemon glanced their way. "Apologies, Lord Commander. I suppose it's a good thing I lived to meet this Targaryen child, because I'm the only one here that probably remembers the old, long outdated treatments used by the Citadel."

"Outdated?"

"Yes, that's right. The maesters trained at the Citadel are taught about the basics on such remedies for the general knowledge on them, but they're never supposed to use those treatments on actual patients. They were banned for a reason, be it because it was discovered they might cause other problems for people, certain procedures were far too dangerous for particular conditions, or because better remedies were later developed. Judging by what I saw of her symptoms right now and how she mentioned owl's blood, I suspect Lyaella has the breathlessness of the lungs."

Curious murmurs spread through the crowd, and even Stannis' party exchanged unreadable looks. Jon merely tilted his head, puzzled. "The breathing condition? She has that?"

"I will have to talk to her later and discuss her breathing problems in detail to fully confirm, but most likely. It would certainly explain why she's been coughing so much and why she's so easily winded during her swordplay training."

"But what does her condition have to do with outdated remedies?"

Maester Aemon frowned. "Because it's possible she's been subjected to long term medicinal abuse. It's likely she's been treated in the past with a very old, very outdated remedy that mixed owl's blood with watered down wine. It technically does help the lungs, but at the price of sometimes causing extreme nausea and vomiting in patients, more often than not they couldn't keep the medicine down. Not to mention better, healthier treatments were later developed. That tonic has long since been banned by the Citadel, since before King Aerys himself sat on the Iron Throne."

The whistling wind was the only sound to be heard in the lengthy silence. Everyone stared, not even sure what to make of this revelation. There were no whispers between the onlookers, no bewildered murmurs to one another. Just silence.

Jon's mind went blank. He blinked repeatedly, trying to process this information. What Maester Aemon just revealed was just too shocking for him to absorb. Medical abuse? Outlawed remedies? Lyaella might be a Targaryen bastard of unknown origins, but she was just a little girl. Who would do something like that to an innocent child?

A wordless grunt snapped Jon out of his disbelief and he turned. Stannis had recovered faster than him from the revelation and was glancing over at the door to the maester's private solar. "I suppose that means she wasn't lying then, when we all questioned her," he commented.

"Your grace?"

"It explains why we'll never get a straight answer regarding where she came from or who her relatives are, Lord Commander. She must think that if I don't end up killing them for treason for hiding bastard Targaryen children, she'll be sent back to an abusive home."

"Forgive me for disagreeing, your grace, but I don't think that's the case," said Sam. "Lyaella told us before that her family never attempted to harm her or her brother while living with them. Not until the night they had to run for their lives, that is. How she described them… they sounded cruel, but it didn't sound like they were abusive towards her or her brother."

Maester Aemon nodded. "I agree with Tarly. There's nothing to suggest that her relatives are directly responsible for this. This only proves that she's been enduring long term abuse from a maester, not her relatives. Whether or not her relatives were aware of this abuse is a whole other matter."

Murmurs were exchanged amongst the onlookers, but Jon was spared from having to add his own thoughts into this discussion from Shireen distracting her parents by trying to slip up the walkway steps to visit Lyaella. With the Baratheon royals distracted, Jon seized the opportunity to wrap up this assembly. "Thank you for helping her, Maester Aemon. We'll let you get back to treating her in peace and quiet."

"Of course. I'll be sure to inform you when she awakens, Lord Commander."

Nodding one last time to Jon, Maester Aemon signaled to Sam to help him back upstairs. With the show over, the other brothers of the Night's Watch and soldiers in Stannis' army slowly dispersed, and even Stannis and Selyse dragged Shireen back to their own chambers while Davos and Melisandre slipped away to do the same.

Alone at last, Jon sighed and trudged past fellow brothers to head upstairs. What a mess all this was, but even though it was because of Lyaella, it wasn't her fault. No one can help it if they're sick, especially not when it came to acommon condition like weak lungs. The only thing she did wrong was not telling anyone about her condition, but again, he couldn't really blame her for that if Maester Aemon was right about her being forced to take that disgusting illegal remedy as medicine. Children didn't have the same mindsets as adults. It was stupid of Lyaella to not say something about her condition, but it wasn't her fault either.

If anything, he should have picked up on the fact she was sick. All the times he'd seen her coughing or breathing heavily when she begged him to train her, or even for no reason at all like before she stormed up to the top of the Wall after he'd snapped at her. He grimaced at the memory, guilt clawing at him harder than ever. He'd already been feeling like shit for losing his temper with her, but now he felt even worse. She'd been coughing so hard, but despite his worry, he'd let her go running up to the watch posts and didn't even try to stop her. He'd had a gut feeling something wasn't right, but he'd ignored it out of shame for how he'd treated her.

What a fool he was, never putting two and two together. He'd apologize to her first thing tomorrow, as soon as Maester Aemon gave the all clear for her to have visitors.

* * *

"Come on, you can do it, boy. Just try."

Red eyes stared back at him, blinking quietly.

"Don't play stupid with me. I _know_ you can do it. You did it when I was playing on the streets. So, go ahead! Try!"

Silence. Dead silence. Red eyes turned away as the beast yawned, slowly padding its way to the bed. Hopping on top of it, the black direwolf curled up quietly and closed its eyes.

Torrhen huffed, annoyed. "Ugh! Don't be like that! I need you to work with me here, Shadow! You howled in tempo with my songs when I was playing for money, so I know you can — woah!"

He teetered, nearly dropping his lute as the room spun around, and he reached out wildly for the arm of his chair to stay standing. Dazed, he set down his instrument on the nearby table, and forcibly ignored the wave of nausea crashing over him as he rubbed his temples. He still hadn't fully recovered from his concussion with that fight with the Harpy, and sudden fast movements sometimes made his head spin. Moving around at all was indeed a challenge, and it took a lot out of Torrhen just to walk over to this table and chair on the other side of the private solar. He figured he'd be fine if he sat there while playing his lute and trying to get Shadow to howl in time with the music, and indeed he'd been fine for awhile… until now when he stood up too fast, that is.

A lengthy sigh suddenly cut through the silence, making him jump. "Out of bed, again? I'd have thought you would've realized by now that pushing yourself won't help your recovery."

Torrhen turned. Standing in the archway entrance was his new liege as a squire. He promptly straightened to attention and bowed. "Ser Barris— ah!" The whole room tilted sideways, and seconds later he landed on the marble floor with a solid thump.

Ser Barristan lightly shook his head as he strode across the room, helping him back to his feet. "Dizzy as ever, I see."

"It's not that bad. I just have to move carefully, that's all," he shrugged. "I don't wanna be stuck in here anymore."

"Well, we all have to do things we don't want at some point or another. Now, let's get you back in bed."

Torrhen rolled his eyes, but kept quiet as the old knight helped him back to the bed. He was so sick of being injured. First he'd sprained his ankle when landing in the past, and now he had this stupid concussion. The Ghiscari healer his future mother had summoned to check up on him every few days had ordered him on bed rest until he'd completely recovered, which mean he was stuck in this tiny room all day-every day. And he _hated_ it.

"How much longer 'til I'm better?" he asked, massaging his temples to ease the slowly building headache. "Two more days? Three?"

"Hard to say. If you stayed in bed like you were told and didn't push yourself, you'd probably be back to normal by now," Ser Barristan countered.

Torrhen groaned, thoroughly annoyed. He'd lost track of how long he'd been confined in here after four days, but he was sure it'd been over a week by now. All the more reason to be annoyed, really. The healer had assured him he'd be back on his feet after a week of rest, and he still felt like crap. Though to be fair, the healer also told him to stay in bed when resting, stay hydrated, avoided all loud noises, and kept the curtains shut to filter the harsh sunlight. Keeping drapes shut was easy. Essos was too hot and bright for the Northern boy and he was happy to be out of the scorching sun. Even drinking plenty of water wasn't a problem, as his mother's handmaiden Missandei brought him fresh pitchers every few hours to ensure he followed the healers' instruction. But staying in bed resting and avoiding loud noises? Those were harder to deal with considering he was going stir crazy in this bed and his only source of entertainment was his beloved lute.

Sighing heavily, he flopped back onto the fluffy pillows to gaze dully at the ceiling, but yelped as pain shot through his head.

Ser Barristan stepped forward, eyes wide. "Are you all right?"

"Ugh, aye," he said, clutching at his bandages. "Aye, I'm fine. Just moved too fast again…"

Shadow whined. Wiggling closer to his young master, the black direwolf pressed up against the boys' left side and laid his head down on Torrhen's lap before closing his eyes.

Torrhen smiled despite his pain, patting him appreciatively. "Thanks, bud. You always know how to cheer me up."

Ser Barristan chuckled. "Good friend you have there, Torrhen. Very loyal. Never leaves your side, does he?"

"Nope, not really."

"Well, he seems quite worried about you, too. Don't you think you owe it to your wolf to stay here and rest? Rather than trying to leave and wander aimlessly around the halls?"

The boy scowled begrudgingly. His constant attempts to escape this solar hadn't been lost on the queen or her small council. They'd found his antics amusing at first and simply escorted him back to this small room with only a light reprimand. That changed though after he walked down two hallways before being startled by an open window streaming in sunlight. Within seconds he'd gotten a splitting headache and lightheaded, and he fell over and was stuck in that spot until a random soldier found him almost an hour later. He had no choice but to stay there until someone found him. He was too dizzy to even stand, but his many attempts at trying made him nauseous, and it took every bit of clarity he had to crawl unsteadily to an urn and throw up in it. Since then, everyone had been taking the fact he needed bed rest very seriously.

"I'm gonna bust outta here sooner or later," he assured the knight, his words only half-joking. "You know that, right? I'm just taking a break for the night."

Ser Barristan nodded knowingly. "Right," he agreed, a smile tugging on his lips. "Of course you are."

"Hey, don't laugh! I'm serious!"

He sobered. "I apologize, that was unbecoming of me. Still, I think it'd be for the best if you abandoned such notions, Torrhen. The Unsullied are the most disciplined soldiers in the entire world, and her grace stationed them out in the hall to stop you if you act irresponsibly again. They are too vigilant and will not be distracted by simple tricks."

"You think I haven't realized that? I must've spent hours trying to get them to lower their guard. Trying to talk to them? Having Shadow plead with them for attention? Using my training sword to bounce light on the wall out there to make them turn? They never even blinked!" the boy exclaimed. "I almost wish the Second Sons were the ones on guard duty. I don't like them after how they treated me out on the streets, but at least I could've snuck past them were they here now."

The old knight chuckled. "Why do you suppose the queen assigned the Unsullied here instead? She expected you'd try something like that. She even has a few more watching the balcony right below yours, in case you try climbing out the window on a sheet rope."

Torrhen sulked, folding his arms. "Hmph. I'm not always the sharpest sword of the lot, but even I'm not that stupid. I'd have to be suicidal to try that when my head's this bad."

"If you understand, then why keep trying to leave?" Ser Barristan asked, puzzled. "If you simply stayed and waited a few more days, I'm sure you'll feel much better soon."

Torrhen's annoyance faded away, and he gazed up at him earnestly. "Because I'm eager to start squiring for you, ser, and I wish to see and speak to Queen Daenerys again. I've hardly seen her since I arrived."

Thankfully, Ser Barristan didn't chide him this time. To Torrhen, every day he was stuck in this bed was a day wasted. He wanted to begin his squire duties with the loyal knight, to learn how to be a strong swordsman that could go through life sticking to the honorable path. It wasn't easy in this world to make it to a ripe old age always doing the right thing instead of the smart one. Ned Stark made it to adulthood, but that was only because he'd been Warden of the North and the realm had been at peace for so many years. With no reason to focus on the northernmost kingdom, the rest of Westeros had largely ignored Northerners. It was only when he got dragged into the stupid game of thrones that his honor cost him his head. That went for Robb Stark, too. He'd been a good person, if only brainless regarding his choices. He shouldn't have been too quick to lock himself into a marriage agreement with the Frey's, nor spurned that agreement by marrying a political no one. Not to mention he lost a good portion of his army when he executed the Karstark lord for murdering two Lannister prisoners rather than holding him hostage to ensure the Northern House remained loyal. And his future father, Jon Snow? His honor and loyalty towards his selfish siblings was why he'd been forced to kill his future mother when she was driven to Targaryen madness. Honor compelled him to sink his dagger into her heart, and then to hanging at the end of a rope.

Yes, Torrhen wanted to learn everything he could from Barristan Selmy about how to live in this world as an honorable person, so he was quite eager to get better and start serving the great knight. In truth though, that was only the secondary reason as to why he wanted to be back on his feet again. The primary reason was so he could spend more time with Queen Daenerys.

While he didn't blame his future mother regarding the long delay it took him to finally meet her, Torrhen was baffled as to why she was seemingly disinterested in his presence. Since the day he met her with the rest of her small council, he'd only seen her once — when she personally escorted the Ghiscari healer to his chambers and introduced them to each other. She'd been overly formal and distant throughout the introduction and only made eye contact with him when absolutely necessary. Her behavior puzzled him, but he'd assumed she was trying to maintain her queenly image in front of the healer. He figured the next time she came to visit him, she'd be more relaxed and willing to talk to him. Sadly, that never happened, as she never came to see him again. This truly confounded Torrhen, as he'd been certain that Daenerys would've wanted to spend every spare moment she had getting to know him once he revealed his Targaryen lineage. He was disappointed she didn't believe him right away when they met, but he'd hoped she would want to be as close to him as possible to determine if he was lying about his heritage. But alas, his hopes were all but crushed into smaller and smaller pieces with each day that passed without her making an appearance.

Ser Barristan was silent for a short time, carefully considering him before finally nodding. "I understand," he said, crossing the room to collect the chair Torrhen had been using before and dragging it to the bedside. "You must be very excited about being here."

Torrhen nodded. "Me and Lyaella have been waiting our whole lives to meet our — our fellow Targaryen relative," he said carefully. "To be honest, Lya's always been more excited about the queen than me, so it kills me that she's not here, too. But I'm thrilled Queen Daenerys is letting me stay for now, and I never thought a great knight like you would want me as your squire, ser. I'm honored you'd consider me."

"The honor is mine, Torrhen."

"I wanna start training under you, and I have so much I wanna talk to the queen about! Why hasn't she come to see me?"

The knight sighed. "It's a shame her grace hasn't spoken to you one-on-one yet, but rest assured it's nothing personal, Torrhen. Our queen hasn't had a chance to rest since that earthquake happened. Between struggling to get the city back on its feet and dealing with the Harpy attacks, she's exhausting herself every day. Hopefully when you're better, things will be stable enough for her to stop and rest every now and then."

"Oh. Okay, then. Lady Missandei told me the same. I thought maybe she lied just to cheer me up based on the stuff I heard around the city. But if that's really the case, then I get it."

"What do you mean?" Ser Barristan asked, furrowing his brows. "What 'stuff' have you heard?"

Torrhen forced a chuckle and shook his head, waving his hands to hopefully hide his cringe. "Just stuff from the citizens about how she's been ruling Meereen. I'll talk to her about it later." No reason why he should reveal it was the former masters he'd been listening to, nor that he partially agreed with them that his mother was acting partially like a tyrant regarding how she was ignoring the Meereenese people's history and customs. Not to mention how she mercilessly crucified all those noblemen when she liberated the city. There was no telling how the knight would react to those statements, and Torrhen couldn't risk Ser Barristan telling Daenerys about this chat in advance before he could see her again. He needed to talk to the queen about this himself to judge her honest reaction.

Ser Barristan gave him a quizzical look, but otherwise dropped it. "Hmm, all right. As far as squiring goes, you might be excited about the opportunity, but I fear you're already off to a poor start."

"What? What d'you mean?"

He chortled, amused. "You're already failing the first task I gave you as a squire, to stay in bed and rest, remember?"

There was a long pause, then Torrhen huffed and let his gaze wander, idly running his fingers through Shadows' fur.

The silence continued on for a few moments before the knight realized he had no intention of answering him. "It's rude to simply ignore a question, Torrhen. Do you remember that I told you that before or not?"

Torrhen sighed. "Aye, I remember. Sorry for not listening, it's just... ugh, I'm bored to death in here!"

"Bored?"

"Aye, bored! I sit here all day with nothing to do, no one to talk to!"

Shadow's head snapped up, and he growled lightly at his young master.

"Well, except you, of course, Shadow. I'd never forget you... I just meant I wanted to have an actual conversation with someone."

The direwolf narrowed its eyes, then promptly hopped off the bed and trotted to the corner Missandei had been kind enough to set up as a little area for Shadow to rest in. With soft blankets, fluffy pillows, and two little dishes on the floor for food and water, it was a major upgrade for the wolf from being locked up in the Winterfell kennels and then living on the streets with his boy.

Rolling his eyes at the wolf as he nestled in the cushions, Torrhen's gaze shifted to the sheer curtains covering the archway leading to the balcony. He couldn't really see how the rest of Meereen looked from his spot in bed, but he could still see the sky. Most of the stars were obscured thanks to the curtains, but at least the moon was still visible, a waning crescent moon peeking out like a smile. Like Lyaella's smile when she was at ease and not feeling shy or self-conscious around others...

His heart ached at the thought. Clenching his jaw, he snatched up his pillow and hugged it tightly, burying his face in it to avoid the knight's gaze. "I... I miss Lyaella..." he mumbled. "She's... She's my sister. My twin sister. It's always been me and her against the world. We've never... We've never been away from each other for even a _day,_ let alone months!"

Ser Barristan's eyes softened. "You must be very worried."

He nodded, still not glancing out from his pillow. "Worrying about her is my job, and she's always on the back of my mind. Is she okay? Is Sōnar okay? Where are they now? Tonight? Are they safe, at least? Other than when—" he stopped, gulping thickly when he nearly mentioned his visions during his fire flickers. "—when we got separated, I don't know where she is except maybe still in the North."

The knight smiled kindly. "I'm sure she's all right, Torrhen. If there's one thing I know after spending the past few years with the queen's dragons, it's that dragons are incredibly protective of whichever human bonds with them. Similar to how your direwolf is protective of you. If you're telling the truth about you and your sister having a dragon, I'm certain it will protect her."

"I _am_ telling the truth. I swear it by the old gods, new gods, fire gods, whichever gods you want me to swear it on. Sōnar's real, and she's Lya's dragon."

"Then she should be fine. Regardless of your last name, if you're both indeed descended from House Targaryen, then she has the blood of the dragon within her. If she's anything like you, she won't be the first one to give up on both of you finding each other again."

Torrhen snorted. "Lyaella's nothing like me. I'm loud and brash, she's quiet and shy. I swear at least ten times a day, she never curses at all. I'm rude when I'm annoyed and lose my temper at the stupidest things, she's overly polite to even those who treat us like shit and it's incredibly rare for her to get angry. I don't believe for a second she'd ever give up on us finding each other again, though. She's nothing like our cruel backstabbing relatives. I just know that were it not for the fact that I'm here in Meereen where Daenerys Targaryen is, I would've hopped on the first boat sailing to Westeros ages ago to search for her."

Ser Barristan blinked. "Beg your pardon? What was that about your relatives?"

He waved away the inquiry. "Long story. One I don't wanna get into right now." Torrhen respected Ser Barristan and was grateful to him for being the one to finally help him meet Daenerys Targaryen, but he still didn't know whether or not it was a good idea to trust him with more specific details about where he and Lyaella came from. Aside from Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan was the only person he'd met in Meereen who had helped him out of the goodness of his heart. If he were to trust anyone in his mother's inner circle about him and Lyaella being time travelers from the future, it would be the two knights who'd both lived and died with honor while serving her. If Ser Jorah were here right now, he'd tell the man immediately considering he was so loyal to the queen he died protecting them in the original timeline. Ser Barristan died in a Harpy riot here in Meereen, one which Torrhen now suspected he'd unknowingly changed the outcome of by jumping into that fray. The Lord Commander of the Queensguard was undoubtedly honorable and loyal, so Torrhen wasn't worried about the knight selling the truth of his identity to his future mother's enemies... but what _did_ worry him was whether Ser Barristan was so honorable and loyal he'd immediately tell Daenerys about him being her future son. The details were rather vague in _The Song of Ice and Fire_ history book, but from the little he and Lyaella were able to understand, Ser Barristan was the one who had persuaded the queen that Ser Jorah was untrustworthy, which led to his banishment. Torrhen didn't know what all that had been about, but he could tell Ser Barristan wasn't the type to spread lies like that in order to cause chaos in his mother's court or to gain her favor. No, it was more likely Ser Barristan honestly believed he was doing the right thing at the time, and he went ahead and told her about it before Ser Jorah could've had the chance to prove his loyalty to his mother.

Ser Barristan was a good, honorable man and loyal to his future mother, but was he smart enough to play the game of thrones while still upholding that honor? Until Torrhen knew for certain, he couldn't risk telling the knight the truth on who he was.

"We're twins, but she's the younger one between us. I'm the big brother, she's my little sister. Our relatives have always hated us, so it's just her and me, really. It's my job to protect her, comfort her when she's upset. And it's up to me to remind her to believe in herself."

Ser Barristan blinked, puzzled. "Believe in herself? What do you mean?"

Torrhen didn't answer. He just kept his gaze locked on one of the rare stars bright enough to shine through the sheer curtains.

"I can tell you want to talk about this, or else you wouldn't have brought it up. I won't judge you or your sister for whatever you tell me. You have my word."

He bit his lip as he considered, then sighed. "You're a good man, Ser Barristan. Probably one of the rare few in this world who cares about honor and loyalty. Me and Lyaella's father cared about honor and loyalty, too. He… He was forced to throw away those values when our damn relatives betrayed him and our mother, because they left him with no other choice. He did what he had to thinking they'd help him, but they didn't. They abandoned him, so he died. Died for nothing. And people didn't care we were babies when all that shit happened. They didn't care things weren't our fault. They wanted people to hate solely to keep on hating. Almost everyone we've known has been cruel to us in one way or another. That eats away at Lya's confidence, so she doesn't have much self esteem. She… doesn't even think she's a strong person. She thinks strength only comes from rigorous training to become a great fighter, arguing with people to the point you scream your head off at them, or even fighting back if people try smacking you around." He paused, then reluctantly met Ser Barristan's eyes with a halfhearted shrug. "It's what I do, anyway."

"I see," said the knight, his expression contemplative. "And what do you think?"

"What?"

"Do you believe strength only comes from acting in such a manner? Is that why you behave that way to others?"

Torrhen gaped. "Of course not! You insult me by asking, ser!"

"I apologize, but if you don't believe that, then why—?"

"Because one of us _had_ to become tough and mean. Every god out there knows Lyaella could never hurt a fly, let alone anyone else, even in self-defense. I'm the stupid one between us and she's the genius, but even _I_ knew that."

The silence in the room was unsettling. Torrhen knew the queensguard was staring at him incredulously for his answer, but he couldn't bring himself to meet his eyes. He just stared sullenly at his lap, reluctantly hoping Ser Barristan would simply drop the matter now.

Sadly, that was just wishful thinking on his end. "Explain, please."

He sighed, slumping his shoulders. "Well, let's just say there was a certain day back when me and Lya were little that… we realized just how cruel and selfish our relatives truly are, and that they never really loved us or our father." His eyes snapped back to the knight. _"Don't_ ask for details on this, because I won't give any. Be satisfied with that."

"…All right, but what does that have to do with anything?"

" _Everything,"_ Torrhen exclaimed, his voice slowly becoming more and more bitter. "If you think I don't know that my attitude and temper doesn't win me any favors, then you're wrong. I'm the dumb one between me and my sister, but I know that. I'd have to be stupider than stupid to not know that considering how often people ridicule or smack me for sassing them. But… I can't help it. I've been this way for so long because it was necessary for me and Lya. If I hadn't, she would've broken under all the criticism and abuse years ago!"

"What do you mean? People… people didn't hit you or your sister, did they?"

He nonchalantly shrugged. "Our relatives? No. They were cruel, greedy fucks and they've all got blood on their hands, but they preferred emotional abuse with us. Everyone else? We were fair game to them, be it with words or an occasional smack. Especially the maester. He's so cruel to us, I think he enjoys it. Between you and me, Ser Barristan, I privately believe he's the reason why Lyaella's weak lungs are as bad as they are. That so-called medicine he always gives her only makes her nauseous and vomit. If he's not secretly poisoning her, I'd be amazed."

"What—? What did you—?"

"Whole other issue, ser, and one I'd prefer to explain only once since it's rather long. Ask me next time we're both with the queen. We're getting off track, though. Point is, my sister's always been quiet and shy, but before we realized just how cruel our relatives are, she used to be… um…" he paused, thinking hard. "What's the right word…? Open…? Aye, open. She wasn't so on edge around others. She was still easily saddened if people were cruel to us, but she wasn't so invested in worrying about what others thought of us either. And it was after that day she started stuttering."

"She stutters?"

"Aye, she stutters all the time, around everyone. Well, everyone except me, Shadow, and Sōnar, of course. Still, her shyness made her the easier target between her and me for everyone to torment."

"Hm, I see..."

"Tch, no offense, Ser Barristan, but unless you've been in that situation, you _can_ _'t_ see. Lyaella doesn't know that I know just how often people smacked her around in the earliest days of the abuse, but I do. I might be stupid, but I had eyes and ears. I could put two and two together when I saw how many bruises she had. And it's not like our relatives cared."

"Come now, I'm sure they—"

"No, they _really_ didn't!" Torrhen snapped, annoyed that he wasn't getting his point across. "The Bitch of the North did _nothing_ to those responsible. If we ever showed up in front of her with bruises or scratches, she'd just purse her lips and order us to get cleaned up. She never asked us who hurt us, never confronted them. She turned a blind eye to our mistreatment, just so she could keep clinging to power. And then our uncle…" he clenched his fists, temper steadily rising. "Let's just say he's… special."

"Special?"

"Aye, special. He knows things that've happened before, happening now. Even know about the future. He could've told people he knew we were the scapegoats for everyone to dump on, or even stopped our parents from dying in the first place. but he did nothing. He let it all happen."

"Why?"

"Hell if I know. He's like a creepy doll, face always blank aside from the occasional smirk or frown. He scares the shit out of us. And our other aunt? She doesn't give a damn whether or not we suffer," he scoffed, turning to look up at Ser Barristan. It unnerved Torrhen seeing the bewildered look on the knight's face, but he ignored it. It was vital for Ser Barristan to understand that he was dead serious about this. "She'd rather be alone than part of a family."

Ser Barristan frowned. "What… What makes you so sure that's true?"

"Because she doesn't want to be with us like family should be together. She's always off on some great expedition or other, exploring the world. She only visits once in a blue moon with her fake smiles and fake pretense of caring about me and Lyaella during the short time she's there before trekking off on some other grand adventure. If she honestly did care about us, she wouldn't leave. She'd stay and be with us, or… or at least take us with her to get away from that hellhole! But she doesn't! She leaves us with the fucking Bitch of the North and isn't even sorry about it!"

The knight blinked repeatedly at everything he'd revealed about his and Lyaella's life with the selfish Starks. Torrhen glared at the curtains, not wanting to see the obvious shock and pity on his face. If he'd stunned Ser Barristan just with these minimal details about how the Starks had treated them on a daily basis, he couldn't imagine how he'd react if he told him the full extent of their cruelty towards them and their parents. As one of the rare few in the world who lived by the code of honor, if Ser Barristan was appalled, then he and Lyaella were right to be angry about their mistreatment. They weren't insane or descending into Targaryen madness just because they were angry. They couldn't be if even the honorable Barristan Selmy believed that their aunts and uncle were terrible people.

"Do you get it now, ser? Our relatives never cared about us. We couldn't rely on them, so it was up to me to protect us both. Anyone insulted Lyaella or made her cry, I'd yell at them 'til I went hoarse. Someone tried hitting her or smacking her, I'd start fist fights so they'd never try again. I didn't know what else to do to make them leave her alone. I didn't care if I got hurt in her place. I couldn't just stand by and let them break my sister down little by little. I mean, what would you've done if you were me and people treated your sister like that?"

Ser Barristan pressed his lips together and looked away, pondering quietly. It was a long time before he finally answered. "I don't know. I can see why you must've thought that was necessary back then, what with no one around you both could turn to as a support system. Or was there someone you knew like that?"

"There's a few adults we ultimately trust," Torrhen shrugged. "But none of them live near us. The one woman we trust wholeheartedly we haven't since we were five considering how badly our relatives insulted her. We only get ravens from her now. Then one man we somewhat trust lives all the way in King's Landing, but even if he didn't, we don't know how much we should trust him. Then the other man? He was the best, but… but we found out recently he died, so that's no help."

"Hmm… I see. I can understand that logic, then. Still, it's one thing to be that way when defending your sister as a child. It's another to act that way all the time even now when you're older."

"I know," he sighed. "I know it's wrong. But I can't help it! It just… comes naturally to me now. It's a habit."

"Well, you'll have to learn to break that habit, Torrhen. As a squire, you are training to eventually become a knight. An honorable knight is always respectful to others, regardless of how others treat them."

"But that's just it — I _am_ trying to stop acting like that! I may not remember every time I lose my temper, but sometimes I do tell myself to not get angry. I try to not lose my cool, I really do! But… But it's no good. I always end up screaming my head off in the end, even over stupid things."

"Then from now on, you'll have an incentive to try harder at keeping your anger in check. As you'll be squiring for me, I'll be tough on you whenever you lose your cool. Fair enough?"

"Aye, fair enough."

"Then I'll leave you to rest for now. I have matters I must discuss with the queen, anyway. Good night, Torrhen."

"'Night, Ser Barristan."

Waving politely to the old knight as he left, Torrhen waited until his footsteps trailed off down the hall before turning to whistle at Shadow. With a flick of his ears, the black wolf's eyes opened and focused upon him.

Torrhen smiled. "Hey, sorry to ask you this, bud, but could you bring me my lute? I'd get it myself, but I just promised Ser Barristan I'd make more of an attempt to stay in bed."

His wolf sat up, red orbs narrowing considerably.

"Come on, Shadow! Please?"

Shadow considered him for a moment, then quietly stood up, stretched, and padded his way over to the small table.

"Thanks, boy! I owe you one!"

Collecting the neck of the lute between his teeth, Shadow trotted over, Depositing the instrument in his master's lap. He sprang up beside him on the bed, nuzzling up against Torrhen's side. Chuckling at his direwolf brother's bid for attention, Torrhen scratched Shadow behind the ears before adjusting his lute on his lap with his other hand. He knew he should really get some rest like Ser Barristan wanted him to, but now that Lyaella was on his mind, he needed his lute. Music was the only way he could still feel close to his sister despite this awful separation.

Idly plucking a lone string, Torrhen couldn't help but sigh. "Lyaella... Where are you, sister?"

It didn't matter that he was finally safe and off the streets in their future mother's court. If Lyaella wasn't here with him, he couldn't truly relax. They were twins, bound together before they were even born. She needed him like he needed her. They shared a bond no one else could ever understand. A bond that ran deeper than any other, the only exceptions being their bonds with their dearest companions. Lyaella was the only one who could ever calm him down whenever he gave into his anger, and he alone could convince her to not give into her sorrow. Not to mention he was the only one she trusted to keep quiet about her occasional minor lung flare-ups when they happened. That she had to live every day of her life constantly monitoring her own breathing astounded him. Torrhen didn't know how she endured it, but she returned his protectiveness by being the only one who believed him about his 'fire flicker' episodes. If she were here now, he wouldn't hesitate to tell her about the strange visions he'd been getting with them lately. And he knew she'd never question the absurdity of it when he did. She'd believe him without a second thought.

Screw everyone out there who's ever been cruel to his sister. Lyaella was strong, in her own special way. Ways in which he could never be. He only hoped that she found a way to meet their future father the same way he'd met their future mother, or at the very least she was hiding somewhere safe and with trustworthy people until he could get back to Westeros and search for her. He couldn't leave Daenerys, but there wasn't a day that went by where he didn't think about his sister and worry if she was okay.

He glanced back at the curtains covering the window to gaze at the moon. Could Lyaella see the moon tonight? Were they both looking up at the moon together right now? "I… I dunno if you can see the moon wherever you are, sis, but… but if you can, then don't worry! I know you're far, but I'll find you if it's the last thing I do! I'm sure you're feeling lost and scared without me and Shadow there, but… but stay strong, you hear? We might not see each other again tomorrow, or the day after, or even in the next few weeks, but we _will_ see other again, I promise!"

The smiling moon glowed brightly through the sheer curtains, and Torrhen couldn't stop himself from smiling back as he plucked another string on his lute. The boy didn't know if there were any religions out there that considered the moon as some sort of godly figure, but if there were, he hoped that moon god was listening to him now and could somehow send his words to Lyaella. His visions had told him that she was at least alive and safe wherever she was, but she probably didn't have any idea on how he was doing. Not unless she dreamed about him, that is. If only there was some way he could connect with her across the sea so they could talk. Not for long, just for a few minutes. Just long enough for them both to know the other was doing okay, maybe even play one song together to find the strength to endure this separation.

Wait, a song… A song about them being apart, yet doing everything they could to find each other…

Torrhen sat up straight in bed, making Shadow yip at him irritably. Torrhen didn't even hear him, the beginnings of a beautiful melody flowing through his mind. The music… it was like the personification of just how much he missed and was worried about his sister. And the few words he'd been telling the moon a moment ago? They were rough around the edges, but maybe he could tweak them into lyrics for the first verse. Carving out the rest of the words was going to be hard since Lyaella was the lyricist between them while he generally wrote the music, but this sudden inspiration was too powerful to ignore. The song inside him was just bursting to be played!

Sending a silent apology to Ser Barristan for having to go back on his promise, Torrhen set aside his lute and shakily climbed out of bed. He wasn't going far. Just to the small writing desk on the other side of the room and back again. He just needed to collect that ink pot, quill, and some blank sheets of parchment paper to start scribbling down his latest musical masterpiece.

* * *

The next morning, Jon emerged from his private quarters right as the Watchers on night duty were wrapping up their shifts. The other men were so tired they barely acknowledged him, but Jon wasn't even aware of them as he marched across the walkways to Maester Aemon's workroom. He'd been tossing and turning all night, stressed and guilty about Lyaella's condition. Were it not for the fact that he knew Maester Aemon, Sam, and Gilly would never hurt her, he probably wouldn't have slept at all. Plus, her dragon was in there, and so was Ghost as far as he knew. Sōnar made it clear when they first found Lyaella that they'd have kill her first before daring to harm her mistress, and while he was clueless as to how exactly Lyaella had met his direwolf, knowing Ghost was with her all night quelled some of his worries. Ghost was an excellent judge of character and very protective of those he was fond of.

As he approached the door however, he was surprised to see Shireen Baratheon already leaning against the wall right next to it, looking extremely bored. She wasn't alone, either. Two of her father's soldiers were lingering close by, as was Melisandre and Davos.

"My lady, I know that her grace is rather suspicious of Lyaella Snow's intentions, but I assure you that the princess is well protected right now. If you wish to sleep longer, I'd be more than happy to escort the princess in myself to see Lyaella when she can finally have visitors."

"I am fine, Ser Davos. The early hour doesn't bother me."

"You're certain?"

"Yes, don't worry. And even if it did, I know Princess Shireen is in no danger around Lyaella Snow. The Lord has assured me of this."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've seen them together in the fire, wearing hooded cloaks as they hurried through the Winterfell courtyard."

"But… But she rejected the king's offer."

"I know, that is why I must stay here and speak to her when she's ready to receive guests. I'll admit I do not know why my vision from R'hollor showed me about her and brother talking about a wisp of blood frightened her so much, but it's clear she has a role to play in his grace's destiny. Her admitting that she's met another red priestess that spoke of the ancient prophecy to her and her missing twin is no coincidence. The Lord sent her here to meet the Prince that was Promised, to help our king unite the realm for when the Long Night begins."

Davos frowned, clearly skeptical, and privately Jon agreed. He didn't know much about the prophecy of Azor Ahai, but even if it was real, there was no point in obsessing over it. Let the rest of Westeros squabble amongst themselves over that stupid chair in King's Landing. The men of the Night's Watch had to prepare for when the only war that mattered finally began. When the dead finally marched South, the Wall was the first line of defense for the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Should it fall though, it didn't matter if the Baratheon king was the Prince that was Promised or not. The dead wouldn't care. They can't be negotiated with, can't be convinced to switch sides. They'd kill everyone and everything that stood in their way. All any of them could do was try to save as many people as possible from succumbing to that terrible fate, to warn everyone in the South to put aside their differences and band together for the sake of human survival…

Wait a minute, that wasn't a bad idea. Jeor Mormont had tried pleading with King's Landing prior to the Great Ranging to send more men and supplies after what happened with that one wight in his private quarters, and later Maester Aemon had Sam write to all the lords and ladies of Westeros begging for help against Mance Rayder and the army of the dead. King's Landing had ultimately ignored his predecessors' plea, and aside from Stannis, no one had come to their aid when the Free Folk launched their attack. Jon honestly didn't know what it would take to convince people that the threat was real, but the one thing he could do now as the new Lord Commander was try to save as many lives as possible. Granted, the rest of the Watch would definitely not approve of this idea, but there were still more Free Folk at risk out there. They didn't deserve to be mindless shells for the rest of their life, that was a fate worse than death. It was something he should think about later, at the very least…

"Pardon me, my lord, but may I have a word?"

Jon jumped and spun around. Princess Shireen was to his right, a distinct frown on her face as she gazed up at him. He blinked repeatedly, surprised that she managed to sneak up on him. Clearing his throat, he bowed his head politely. "Princess Shireen."

"Never mind formalities. I have something I must ask you, Lord Snow," she declared. "If it's not too much trouble, I would request a moment of your time."

"Oh, um, that's fine. Go right ahead, princess."

"Thank you. I would like to know why my friend Lyaella was so upset she spent all evening yesterday on top of the Wall. If not for that, she wouldn't have gotten as sick as she was."

Jon tensed, a lump forming in his throat. "I… I lost my patience yesterday and snapped at her.

"Why? Did she do something wrong?"

"No, it wasn't her fault. I shouldn't have yelled at her like that…"

Shireen was silent for several moments, studying him coolly. "Hmph, I should say not. Snapping at someone who has done absolutely nothing wrong is beyond cruel. Take it from someone who knows, my lord."

He cocked his head, confused. "I… what?" Even Davos and the Red Woman ceased their discussion and turned in puzzlement. "I don't know what you mean."

She nearly huffed, but seemed to think better of it at the last second and stopped herself. Instead, she pointedly swept the strands of hair covering her greyscale scars behind her ear as she turned to gaze out at the empty, snow-covered courtyard. "I might be a Baratheon and am technically considered an enemy to House Targaryen, but I still became friends with Lyaella. Do you know why it was so easy for me to befriend her?"

Jon blinked, not sure if he was supposed to answer or let her continue.

"Because we're quite similar," she stated. "I always try being kind and friendly to others so they can try to see past my greyscale. Lyaella's shy and stutters a lot, but she's been nothing but kind since I met her, and it's plain to see that she hates being judged for her silver hair and Sōnar. I'm only ten, but I know how she feels. It truly hurts when people hate and reject you just because you're different when you can't help that you are."

His throat bobbed, guilt eating away at him. What was he supposed to say that? "I… I hear what you're saying…"

"Do you, now?" she asked, still rather unimpressed. "I'm not certain you do."

"What?"

"Well, as I understand it, you and Lyaella are both Snows, meaning you're both illegitimate. I mean no disrespect when I say this, my lord. I'm simply stating facts. You grew up a bastard, just like her."

Jon pressed his lips together, not sure where she was going with this. "Aye, I did."

She studied him for a moment, eyes sweeping him from head to toe before settling back on his face. "I'm trueborn, and my father's only heir. I can't imagine what it must be like being a bastard, but Lyaella does. She lives with that burden on top of being a Targaryen every day. My mother told me yesterday I don't know what people will do to others, and after hearing what Maester Aemon said about her being abused for a long time by another maester, I see that she was right, but at least now I have a better idea on what to expect from the world. Still, I can't relate because I'm not a bastard…" she trailed off, scuffing the toe of her boot repeatedly into the snowy walkway. "But _you_ are, Lord Snow. I don't know why you took your problems out on Lyaella yesterday, but she didn't deserve that. If anything, you probably hurt her more than you realize. One doesn't have to be smart to understand she seeks you out because you've been kind and happen to be a fellow Northern bastard just like her."

Her father's advisers and soldiers exchanged silent glances, impressed by the little doe's speech, but Jon could only stare at Shireen with wide eyes. His mind was racing. What was wrong with him? How could he be so stupid to not realize that himself? When Lyaella realized who he was after he calmed her down during their first meeting, she deliberately said they were alike before introducing herself as a fellow Snow before fainting. He hadn't really thought twice about that exchange until now, as he'd been trying to avoid the Targaryen child and her dragon despite how she constantly sought him out. Her attachment to him was rather odd, but he hadn't wanted to find out why she followed him around. It made sense though, what Shireen pointed out. He did the same thing sometimes when he was a child. Before his younger siblings had been born and if his father wasn't busy or Robb was free to play, he'd spend as much time with them as possible. No one would sneer at him for his name while he was with them, because to insult him was to insult the honorable Warden of the North, and as heir to Winterfell, Robb never let _anyone_ call him less than his brother. Not his bastard brother or his half-brother. His _brother,_ just as much as Bran and Rickon were their brothers as Sansa and Arya were their sisters. The only one who continued belittling him was Lady Stark. He understood why she treated him the way she did, but it'd be a lie to say that her spiteful words and cold glares didn't hurt.

Come to think of it, the way Lyaella described her relatives yesterday in the library sounded a lot like how Lady Stark treated him as a boy. Especially her eldest aunt that she and her brother lived with. Jon thought he'd had it rough as a child being the one stain of dishonor in his father's past, but he could see now he'd had it lucky. Lyaella and her missing brother had had it a thousand times worse than he ever did. From now on, he was going to do his best to be nicer to her. He'd never forgive himself if he made a fellow bastard child feel as hurt and lonely as he did as a boy.

Footsteps from within the workroom brought him back to the present, and moments later the door swung open to reveal his best friend. Sam jumped upon seeing him and Shireen right there. "Oh, Jon! Princess Shireen!"

"Morning, Sam."

"Yes, good morning, Lord Sam. How do you fare?"

Sam sheepishly smiled as Gilly appeared over his shoulder. "Okay, I guess, but I've been better." He scrubbed his eyes wearily, beyond exhausted. "Really tired…"

"Mmm," murmured Gilly, dead on her feet. Dark bags hung under her eyes, and were it not for how she was rocking her sleeping son to her chest, Jon was certain she would have fallen asleep right there. "Been up all night… helpin' Maester Aemon with—" she stopped, yawning loudly "—with Lyaella."

"How is Lyaella? Is she doing any better?"

It took Gilly several seconds to nod. "She… She had a flare up a few hours ago… but she's doin' fine now. Woke up right as I… I finished sewin' her those fightin' clothes…"

Shireen beamed. "Thank goodness, I was so worried! I'll keep her company for you both if you need to get some sleep."

Curtsying politely, she tried to slip past Sam and Gilly and go in, but Davos caught her shoulder with a hearty chuckle. "Whoa there, princess. Give them a moment to step aside first, all right? Lyaella might not be ready to have visitors yet."

"Right, of course. Thank you for reminding me, Onion Knight."

"Um, about that…" said Sam, his tone rather quiet. "Lyaella… she's…"

Jon's breath stilled. "What is it? Gilly said she was doing better."

"Oh, she is. Much better. Maester Aemon wants her to stay on bed rest for today and recommends she takes it easy for the next week to be on the safe side, but she's definitely breathing easier. Her cough's still there, though."

The tension left his shoulders. He sighed, relieved. "That's good. It's a start, if nothing else."

"Yes, you're right, Lord Snow," said Shireen. 'I hope she'll be back to normal soon. 'Til then, I suppose we'll have to move our reading lessons from the library to Lyaella's bedside, Gilly. It wouldn't be right to keep doing them there when she can't join us. But we can do them later. I can tell you're exhausted, so I'll tell Lyaella you'll be by later, 'kay?"

"About that… Lyaella's not… not takin' visitors, now…"

Jon blinked. Davos, Melisandre, and the Stormlands soldiers all exchanged puzzled looks. Shireen stopped bouncing in place and tilted her head, puzzled.

"She can't have visitors? Why?"

"I'd like to know that as well. Is there something else going on that we don't know about?" asked Melisandre, stepping forward. "It's important that I speak to her on behalf of the Lord's will. How soon can she receive guests?"

Sam bit his lip as Gilly shuffled in place. They glanced at one another for a time, then awkwardly turned back to the others.

"It's not that she can't have visitors right now. She doesn't want any."

Shireen blinked. "What?"

Gilly sighed. "She heard yeh all out here, now. Asked us to 'nicely' ask yeh to please leave her be. Dunno why… Did the same with me and Sam when she first woke. Asked us to 'please go away.'"

Jon could only stare in bewilderment. Lyaella didn't want to see anyone? Sure, she was a shy girl, but she'd been coming out of her shell little by little around everyone. Aside from following him around Castle Black begging him to train her, she and Shireen had been completely inseparable down in the library, reading all about dragons and the history of House Targaryen. Why would she want to be alone?

Shireen gawked back and forth between them and her father's advisers. They too were stunned. "N-No…" She sputtered, shaking her head lightly. "I… I-I-I don't believe you… Why… would s-she say that?"

"I don't know…"

"Yer guess is as good as ours, Princess Shireen."

There was a long pause, then Shireen shot forward and craned her head around the two to peer into the workroom. "Lyaella! Lyaella, what's wrong?! It's me! Why don't you — ah!"

Davos needed help from the soldiers to drag her back. "Now, now, princess. I'm… I'm sure there's an explanation. She had a long night, she must be exhausted. I'm sure she'll be open to having you visit later."

"But… But why would she—?"

"How 'bout you show me some of those books in the library, hm? Now that I can read, I outta try doing it sometimes, yes?"

Smiling kindly to Shireen, Davos discreetly motioned Melisandre and the guards to follow as he steered her away. The guards didn't hesitate, but the priestess lingered for a moment to stare at the doorway before reluctantly leaving, too. Jon made sure to shoot Davos an appreciative nod as they left. Whatever was going on with Lyaella, it wouldn't be good to have a big crowd right outside her room wanting to talk to her. He felt bad for Shireen, but maybe if they gave Lyaella some space she'd be open to seeing people later.

He waited until they were gone before turning back to Gilly and Sam. "She really wants to be alone?" They nodded. "Why? I know what you said in front of Shireen, but — but was that just something you said for her benefit, or…?"

Gilly shook her head. "She… She was really quiet, but she made her point clear. She's only lettin' Maester Aemon stay in there 'cause it's his room."

"Well, him, her dragon, and Ghost," added Sam. "I get why she wants her dragon with her, but I don't know when she met Ghost."

"I see… well, what about Maester Aemon's theory about her having breathless lungs? Was he right?"

Sam nodded. "He asked her some questions and with my help he was able to do a more thorough exam, and he's completely certain now."

"I… spent all of last night finishin' sewin' those… sword trainin' clothes," said Gilly, yawning again. "But he told me to focus on makin' her a scarf before washin' her dress and cloak. Said it's vital she starts wearin' a scarf all the time when out in the cold air."

Jon didn't really understand how that would help, but he nodded anyway as his eyes swept past them to the open doorway. He caught a glimpse of Maester Aemon shuffling to the hearth to set a kettle over the fire, but he couldn't really make out Lyaella all that well thanks to Sōnar. The dragon was sitting next to her little mistress directly in front of the doorway, crooning softly as she nudged her with her snout. Jon could only see Lyaella's hands reaching out to pet and scratch Ghost who sat on the floor at the edge of her bed, tongue lolling out as he lavished in the attention. His direwolf seemed to sense that he was outside though, because his eyes suddenly opened and he turned his head to look over at him.

"G-Gho… Ghost? What is it?" He heard her murmur, her voice much quieter than usual. "S-Something wrong…?"

The direwolf merely turned to blink at her before focusing on him again. There was a momentary pause, then Jon heard the telltale sound of the old coils in the thin bed springing as she slowly rose and peered around Sōnar to take a look. Upon seeing him standing there, Lyaella froze, her eyes bulging.

Jon was relieved to see her awake and looking much better, but before he could nod in greeting, Lyaella squealed and leapt back into hiding behind her dragon on the bed.

Gilly and Sam also heard her and quickly turned, as did Maester Aemon. Despite being blind, the old Targaryen prince seemed to accurately guess what had startled her, and chuckled as he hobbled across the floor.

"I will talk to her later about possibly seeing visitors," he told them. "For now, I think it's best to let her rest."

Jon frowned, but nodded. "I understand. Thank you, Maester Aemon."

Smiling in Jon's direction, he shut the door and they heard the light creaking of the old floorboards as he marched back to keep caring for Lyaella.

Jon sighed and looked back to Sam and Gilly. "Thank you both again for helping watch over her. Go get some rest. You both need it."

They nodded appreciatively and headed off. Left alone, Jon reluctantly walked away, too. It was a shame he couldn't visit Lyaella right now and apologize for yesterday, but he'd try again later this evening. Surely she'd be feeling better by then and be grateful for some company.

Entering his private quarters, he let the door swing shut behind him and flopped down into his desk chair. The past twenty-four hours had been a whirlwind. Between him and Lyaella turning down Stannis' offers, him yelling at her, and then finding her last night all breathless and wheezy. For a little girl who was so quiet and shy, she sure had a way of causing drama. Granted, her newly discovered lung problems were not her fault. As terrified as he'd been while rushing her to Maester Aemon, he was still glad this was what happened rather than what he'd initially thought when he first found her. Weak lung attacks could be serious if left untreated, but at least no one hurt her. He hated thinking about it, but he couldn't forget how he'd immediately assumed that possibly one of his less honorable brothers here at the Wall had tried to hurt her…

He grimaced, disgusted. It was a miracle no one in the Night's Watch tried anything towards her yet, nor anyone in Stannis' army. But it could still happen at any time, especially now that everyone knew she had a breathing condition that left her defenseless and weak. She got lucky this time. Were it not for Ghost dashing into the Main Lodge when he did, who knows how long she would've been stuck out there gasping for air. And more importantly, it was a good thing _he_ _'d_ been the one to find her. With the exception of Princess Shireen and to some extent Davos since they were part of the Baratheon party, Jon could count on one hand the number of people he trusted in Castle Black when it came to Lyaella. Everyone else? He was certain she'd be dead or worse if left alone without her dragon.

Which meant it was imperative that Lyaella left the Wall as soon as possible.

Jon didn't know why his stomach seemed to drop at that thought, but he ignored the sensation and swallowed. It didn't matter that he'd snapped at her yesterday or that she needed time to recover from that asthma attack last night. She had to leave the Night's Watch. It was just too dangerous for her to stay here any longer. If Lyaella stayed, she would die, end of story. If not by the hands one of his fellow murderous or molester brothers, then probably by an anti-Targaryen watchman who'd either slit her throat himself, or would write to either the Bolton's or the Lannister's explaining her existence. Armies would come to Castle Black demanding that they handed her over to them to be killed. But then again, she could also have another bad attack soon. Maester Aemon had been able to get her asthma under control this time, but he was old and growing weaker with each passing day. He could pass away at any time. If he did and Lyaella had another attack, she'd die too.

Not to mention the dead were still out there beyond the Wall. Every day their numbers grew. If they were to attack the Wall tomorrow and she was still here…

He shook away the thought. Lyaella had a dragon with her, but Sōnar was just barely bigger than a horse. If enough people or dead men tried to attack all at once, Sōnar would easily be overwhelmed.

No, Lyaella wasn't safe here. She'd been okay so far, but staying here permanently wasn't a solution. She needed to go someplace where there was no chance whatsoever that people would harm her. She had a dragon and was a Targaryen bastard, but she was a gentle girl. Kind and sweet, unable to hurt a fly. If there was ever a child that had been born to the wrong House and did not live up to their House motto, it was Lyaella Snow. From what he'd seen from her so far, she was as likely to live up to the stereotype of Targaryen madness and bring fire and blood to Westeros as Aegon the Conquerer had in achieving his conquest had he not had his dragons.

But the question remained as to what to _do_ about Lyaella Snow. He wasn't going to kill her or throw her out of Castle Black to fend for herself. She was a little girl, completely innocent of the crimes the Mad King and Prince Rhaegar committed against House Stark. He would _never_ hand her over to the Lannister's or Bolton's, the two families that destroyed his own. They'd kill her slowly at some public spectacle, one finger at a time. Stannis wanted her and seemed relatively honorable, but Lyaella didn't want to go with the Baratheon king. Jon had no idea why she was against that idea considering her friendship with Shireen, but it only made everything more complicated. Despite how House Targaryen had nearly been eliminated by House Baratheon, Jon was certain that Stannis wouldn't have hurt Lyaella if she'd agreed to his deal. It was rather fair in all aspects, let him use her dragon to win the throne, and he'd let her live so long as she was willing to be legitimized under a new name instead of Targaryen so she couldn't be a threat to him when she was older. Why in all seven hells did she turn him down?

He rubbed his temples, thinking hard. Where could Lyaella go? Where could he send her that she'd be safe? Where was the safest place for a child when their very existence meant that everyone in the world wanted them dead…?

It took Jon a few minutes, but then, quite abruptly, he jolted as the answer hit him: _Family._ It was a universal truth in life that the safest place you could be was with your family. That's why his father always told him and his siblings to stick together. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Granted, he'd heard enough from Lyaella regarding how her aunts and uncle treated her and her missing brother to know that her relatives were bordering on child negligence and emotional abuse. Even if he somehow managed to convince Lyaella to reveal their names, he'd never send her back to them, not even if they showed up at the Wall tomorrow looking for her. The Martell's were a better option, but like that Dornishman pointed out before, there was a good chance they wouldn't accept Lyaella after how Rhaegar dishonored Princess Elia with his late aunt. Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn't. Unless he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Dorne had forgiven the North for their unintentional role in the death of their princess, sending Lyaella to them wasn't an option either.

There was only one person in the world he could send Lyaella to where she'd be completely safe. But said person was all the way across the Narrow Sea and for all he knew could be a tyrant like her late father. Yet she was also rumored to have dragons, just like Lyaella. Even if she wasn't ready to bring her whole army across the sea to begin her conquest for the Iron Throne, perhaps she would not be adverse to simply… _visiting_ the Night's Watch? If the stories about just how big Balerion the Dread had been, then surely a dragon was more than capable of flying across the ocean and back within a few hours? That would be more than enough time for any potential rider to come here so he could judge them for himself, right?

It was the only way. He knew it was. Quick as a flash, he snatched a sheet of blank parchment from the corner of his desk and reach for a quill. Dipping it into the ink pot, he slowly started to write.

_To the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen…_

* * *

"Do you still have that book I gave you yesterday?"

"Y-Yes…"

"Would you be adverse to me going through the basics of High Valyrian with you now?"

"Uh-uh…"

"Good. Have you started looking through it yet?"

"No, I… I was t-too upset yesterday after… after seeing you…"

Maester Aemon frowned as he slowly crossed the room to settle in a chair near the hearth, but Lyaella didn't pay him any mind. She was too numb and detached to care as she ran her fingers through Ghost's thick fur. Her father's direwolf was basking in the loving scratches and kisses she was pampering him with. Sōnar crooned with obvious jealousy as she nudged her with her snout. Lyaella snickered, turning to pat her neck.

"Shh, girl. It's okay, I promise I haven't forgotten about you," she murmured. "I'm just giving Ghost here extra attention because it's… it's been awhile, you know? I'll probably do the same thing whenever we find Torrhen and Shadow again."

Sōnar warbled, annoyed, and pointedly flicked her tail in Lyaella's face. Despite her detachment from reality, Lyaella giggled.

"Acting stuck-up doesn't suit you, Sōnar. Be nice."

"I'm inclined to agree. I may have only met you and your dragon a short time ago, Lyaella, but I can tell your dragon enjoys being the center of attention. Quite the prideful companion you have there, I must say."

Lyaella tensed, willing her smile to die down to a neutral frown. She couldn't explain why she felt the need to do that since her uncle was blind, but it still felt necessary for some reason. "It's n-not pride, Maester Aemon. It's… I don't know how to describe it, really," she said, turning back to Ghost. "It's always been just… just me, Tory, and our two best friends. We're not… we're not used to sharing our t-time with others…"

"I imagine not. It must not have been easy for you or your brother while growing up."

"Mmm," she said, not knowing what else to say. She desperately wished her Targaryen uncle would leave the room, even if it was only for a few moments. She wanted some time alone to spoil Ghost the way she wanted, to hug him and kiss him and whisper just how much she had missed the old white direwolf without anyone noticing. Her father's wolf may not fully understand why she smelled like his master, but Lyaella was certain that if she could just explain to Ghost who she really was without anyone listening, the direwolf would understand everything. She and Torrhen had been so little when Ghost died, so her memories of him were rather vague, but she and Torrhen had always loved snuggling up to him and falling asleep while using his body as a pillow. The Ghost they'd known had also been larger, a full grown direwolf, whereas this one looked somewhat… smaller, still growing. It wasn't as though Ghost in the future had been a giant, but he'd been at least the size of a mid-sized pony. Direwolves were capable of growing that big in comparison to normal wolves, after all. She even hazily recollected one time when Torrhen climbed onto Ghost's back and tried riding him like a horse.

His sightless eyes stared at the wall over her head, but Lyaella knew the old maester was focusing on her. He just seemed to be lost in thought. "Perhaps you should try getting used to that, then? It was very rude of you to ask Sam and Gilly to turn away your guests, after all."

Lyaella squeaked, her cheeks burning with shame. Planting a quick kiss in Ghost's fur, she dragged his head into her lap and averted her eyes. How was she supposed to explain her reasons for that in a way that would make him understand? It was nothing that any of her supposed visitors had done anything wrong. It was her that was the problem. "I… I d-didn't mean to be rude… I just… I-I-I didn't — I mean, I wasn't… well, I—" she shook her head, sighing defeatedly. "I… I just couldn't… I'm sorry…"

He smiled at her. "I'm sure you are, but remember, it's not me you must apologize to. It's your friend Shireen and her father's advisers, as well as Lord Commander Snow."

Her frown grew twice as sad, and she shifted about uncertainly on her bed. "I… w-would but… I think the Baratheon's won't w-want me to be around Shireen anymore now that… that I turned down S-Stannis' offer… and J-Jon Snow… he made it very c-clear yesterday that h-he… he doesn't want me to be bothering him anymore. I should probably j-just stay out of the way…"

Her eyes grow wet, and moments later she sniffled as her tears fell. It was stupid to cry, she knew, but she couldn't help it. Everything that had happened yesterday was just too hard to think about, and upon waking only a little while ago and being told that her fear of drinking that awful owls blood tonic had been unnecessary was just the last straw. Every time she'd been feeling tight chested or breathless since arriving in the past she'd done everything she could to hide her symptoms, but it'd all been pointless. She'd been so breathless last night she couldn't even stand, but even then she hadn't dared trying to find help because she was so adamant about not drinking that nauseating potion.

She'd thrown a tantrum. Punched anyone who'd tried holding her down. Hit and kicked Gilly. Even went so far as to bite Jon — her future father. But again, it was all for nothing.

There were better, healthier remedies out there to help her breathe if she became wheezy. She felt so stupid for never thinking there could be.

She did her best to stay quiet, but Maester Aemon had lived so long relying only on his sense of hearing and quickly turned to her. Lyaella cringed, slapping a hand over her mouth to try to muffle her small sobs, but he didn't look away.

"Y-You said you wanted to teach m-me High Valyrian, right?" she asked, wiping away her tears and reaching for the instructional book on the bedside table. "I… I have the book h-here. Where should I s-start reading?"

Her uncle was silent for a moment, then softly smiled. "On second thought, we can begin your first lesson later. I just remembered something."

Lyaella choked back a heavy sigh as she watched Maester Aemon slowly rise from the chair. Of course he changed his mind about teaching her. Now that he'd finally realized just how worthless she really was, he didn't want to waste his time teaching a stupid little girl like her. There were far more important things he could be doing right now, after all. But instead of quietly leaving the room as she'd expected, Maester Aemon approached the bookshelf near his bed. Feeling around aimlessly across the shelves for a moment, he apparently found what he'd been searching for and slowly turned, revealing a small, dark mahogany wooden box with a silver lock attached, as well as a thick leather-bound tome, one so old it's binding was fraying and the edges of its pages yellowing.

"I found a few more things I thought might interest you yesterday after our talk in the library," he said, setting them down gently. "Or rather, I found this old book at the bottom of my trunk yesterday. This box I found weeks ago, but it was the key that I misplaced. Glad I finally found it, wouldn't want to have someone smash it open."

"Why not?"

"Because knowledge is power, Lyaella, never forget that. Even after our House was almost wiped out during the rebellion, I had a feeling that these things might be important some day. With you and your dragon here and everything happening out beyond the Wall, it was wise that I did."

Lyaella blinked. "Wait, the rebellion? R-Robert's Rebellion? What… What does he have to do with the Wall?"

Maester Aemon chuckled, shaking his head. "Not the Usurper himself, child. I mean our House's champion at that time." He paused, fishing out a small silver key with an ornate handle from the inner folds of his black maester garb. "You still have yet to reveal to me regarding how you're descended from House Targaryen, but you and I both know that our family lost any chance of winning that war when my great-nephew was slain on the Trident."

She sucked in a breath, her fingers stilling in Ghost's fur. "Y-You… You mean Prince Rhaegar?"

He nodded. "We corresponded regularly through ravens, my nephew and I. He was a good man, never mind what people say about him and Lyanna Stark. I don't know what possessed him to abduct that poor girl, but the stories that have spread… it's not him. It's not the man who'd been writing regularly to me ever since he learned how to write."

As he felt around for the box, Lyaella held her breath, ignoring the soft warbles Sōnar made while nuzzling her hair and the curious glint in Ghost's eyes as he stared up at her. She knew she had to choose her next words very carefully. If she didn't, there were a million possible things she might say, and her mind was so blank from the unexpected mention of her both paternal grandfather and maternal uncle that she feared she might accidentally let slip something that could reveal her true origins. The horrible lies that had been spread about the late Prince Rhaegar were common knowledge, but in the present, no one was supposed to know the truth about how he and her grandmother ran away together. Other than those general facts, she and Torrhen didn't know much about who Rhaegar was as a person. To hear that he'd been a good man was nice to hear.

"I… I never k-knew that," she said finally. "What… What did he write to you about?"

"He often told me about his life, growing up in the palace. His nervousness about marrying Elia Martell, his joys when he became a father, his daily walks in the gardens with his mother. And Aerys' descent into madness. He often told me his fears about what his father might do. Even if he'd never met the late Lyanna, it was only a matter of time before something happened to make Aerys lose his sense and start a war."

"R-Really?"

"Oh, yes, Lyaella. My nephew might have made a spontaneous overnight descent into Targaryen madness, but for Aerys it was a slow transition, one the whole realm was forced to watch. Never doubt the horror stories you've heard about the Mad King, regardless of him being our blood. His mistakes and anger are the real reason why House Targaryen is but a fraction of what it once was. An entire dynasty nearly destroyed, all because of his insanity. Let his mistakes be a lesson regarding what not to do as you grow older. As a Targaryen child, you'll always be judged to see if you're like him."

She stiffly nodded, her eyes falling down to her lap as she idly twiddled her thumbs. "I know that. Tory and me have always been… been s-scrutinized because of the last mad monarch…" A half-truth, really. She and Torrhen had been judged all their lives, but in relation to the Mad Queen as opposed to the Mad King. "What else did R-Rhaegar write to you about?"

He slid the key into the keyhole, smiling brightly. "That's what I wanted to show you now. I saved each one of his letters to me."

There was a distinct click, and moments large the hinges creaked as the lid swung open.

Lyaella lightly gasped as soft music suddenly resonated from out of nowhere, echoing from the box itself. The melody was so beautiful. A bit sorrowful perhaps, but still beautiful, like it had been deliberately written so people would think about both sides of the Targaryen coin toss when they heard it. For some reason she felt like she'd heard this tune before, but for the life of her she couldn't remember where. Various papers were inside, but she hardly glanced at them. No, it was the the small figures of a boy painted completely white yet dressed in courtly clothes as he danced in the arms of a girl dressed in a simple light green dress with flowers strewn through her hair that caught her attention. They were slowly twirling in time to the music in front of the hand painted backdrop on the backside of the lid, one half resembling the ruins of a desecrated castle before gradually morphing to the restored Great Hall of a beautiful keep during the middle of a joyous feast.

"Oh!" she breathed, eyes shining with wonder. Ghost cocked his head slightly as he glanced at the fancy box while Sōnar rumbled, leaning in closer to sniff it. They too had never seen such a box before.

Her uncle smiled. "I take it you like the tune?"

She beamed, her face all aglow. "Yes, it's lovely. Sad, yet lovely… and the dancing couple… they're amazing! I've never s-seen anything like this before…" Now that the box was closer, she could tell it was much more detailed than she'd first assumed from far away. Intricate carvings lined each of its sides, and in the center of the lid was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen fastened on in pure silver. Seeing that only fascinated her even more. This was a true relic of House Targaryen, one which had been forgotten over the years as the memory of the Targaryen prince of the Night's Watch faded from the minds of the people in Westeros.

"I'm not surprised. The world has sadly lost its fondness for music boxes. They used to be quite popular for nobles to own when I was still at court in King's Landing, but tastes changed over the years and they fell out of fashion. I suspect there's hardly anyone still in Westeros who remembers them, let alone how to make them."

"Oh, that's t-too bad."

"Agreed. The only records of them would probably be in the Citadel, and one would have to be actively searching for that information."

"I see. W-Well, what song is this? I… I know I've heard it before. I j-just can't remember where."

He chucked again, smiling in mirth, but doing so caused him to let out a hoarse cough.

Lyaella squeaked, setting the book and music box aside to gently pat his shoulder. "Are you all right, Maester Aemon?"

"Yes, yes. I'll be okay," he said, waving away her concern. "I'm just old, dear. Old and dying here at the Wall."

"W-What?!"

"I'm over a hundred years old, Lyaella. My time is coming. There's nothing to be done to stop that. But enough about that. I'm still alive for now. And to answer your question, this is actually a special music box my nephew sent to me here at the Wall."

She blinked. "Rhaegar had this made for you? Why?"

Maester Aemon's smile slowly went from being somewhat amused to nostalgically sad. "Because he was the one who wrote this song, and I often expressed in my letters how much I wished to hear him sing and play it on his harp for me just once. He tried so many times to arrange a way to visit me here, but every time he was forced to cancel his plans due to one reason or another. He eventually realized that our eventual meeting would most likely never happen and decided to have this crafted for me, that way I could always hear the ballad he wrote for the Prince of Dragonflies and his Lady Jenny."

" _Jenny of Oldstones…"_

"Yes, child. A sadly true tale that demonstrates how love was the death of duty once again for our House."

Lyaella didn't dare reply to that. She simply frowned and kept watching the twirling dancers. This sad yet pretty melody was the perfect accompaniment to this little music box. She wished Torrhen was here more than ever. If he were here right now and could see this amazing musical box, she knew he'd be more than inspired to write music. He could call himself stupid as much as he liked, but between the two of them, Lyaella knew Torrhen was smarter than he realized. He picked up on things faster than she did and was always thinking ahead about problems that could or would happen eventually, unlike her who struggled to comprehend basic things regarding how the world really works and often forgot to think three moves ahead of any of her daily decisions. Plus, Torrhen was the main reason why they'd written as many songs as they did over the years. He focused on writing the music itself, and she tackled the lyrics. Writing lyrics was easy, as all she had to do was make up clever rhymes with a certain number of syllables in each phrase. But the music itself? Now _that_ was hard. How could Torrhen hear so many beautiful tunes when there was literally no music to be heard? What she wouldn't give to have his gift right now. She was already thinking up ideas for lyrics for a new song after seeing this amazing musical box, but the accompanying music she couldn't hear. What did Torrhen understand about music that she didn't?

Still, she should try jotting down these loose ideas for lyrics later. She'd been failing to find inspiration to write new potential lyrics or to even play her lure upon being separated from her twin. She could feel deep down that her brother was still out there somewhere, so she wasn't too worried, but whenever she did find Torrhen again, she would show him that she hadn't been neglecting their musical skills while working to rewrite history with their future father. Whether or not she could try thinking of the beginnings of any possible musical scoring was a whole other matter, but she could at least try. Getting the basic ideas for lyrics down on paper to show him later was what was important.

As her mind raced with thoughts for new lyrics, the dancing couple gradually began to slow in their spinning. Lyaella didn't notice at first though, but she snapped back to reality when the tune quietly pandered off, and moments later it completely faded away and the dancers froze in place. "W-Wait, what happened? Why'd they stop?"

"Don't worry, it just needs to be winded up again. I'll show you how later, though. First, I want to show you these old letters from my dearly departed nephew." He felt around for the first sheet of paper on top of the pile, his smile fading into an awkward frown. "Were I not blind, I would read these out loud to you, Lyaella, but…"

"No, no, it's fine. I can read them j-just fine on my own. It's very… very k-kind of you to show me all this, Maester Aemon."

Ghost butted his head pointedly against her free hand for attention as she perused the contents of various letters. Her late grandfather and uncle had indeed been writing to her many times over great uncle for many years prior to his death.

As she skimmed one particular letter, her brows furrowed, puzzled. "Maester Aemon? I don't understand t-this one."

"Oh?"

She nodded, still focusing on reading. "The p-prince… The prince writes that he's all but read all the books in King's Landing about something he's apparently told you about before 'cause he doesn't say it directly. He asks that y-you contact the Citadel for him so he can do more research into 'the historical facts' about whatever he's looking for."

A slight chuckle made her glance up, and she saw the amused smile on her great uncle's face. "Ah, you found that particular conversation, did you?"

"What?"

"That discussion between myself and my nephew is actually something we corresponded about regularly when he grew older. He was asking if I could have the Citadel send me books regarding more detailed accounts of the earliest known wars in Westeros from around the time the Andals first invaded."

"The Andals? Prince Rhaegar was interested in the Andals conquest?"

"No, no. The Andals themselves were just as far back that he could historically trace during his research. What he was actually looking for was more information on the legends regarding the Long Night."

She straightened, eyes widening as she gave Maester Aemon her full and undivided attention. Lyaella still hadn't heard much regarding the so-called Night King and the army of the dead to make up her mind about whether they really existed, but anything she could learn about the first Long Night from thousands of years ago was welcome news.

"Really? Why?"

"He was quite fascinated with the prophecy that the priestess with Stannis Baratheon keeps alluding to. The ones who shall be reborn as Azor Ahai and his Nissa Nissa."

Lyaella thickly swallowed. "The Prince and Princess of the legend…" she murmured. "The Ones that were Promised…"

The blind maester nodded, now reaching for the heavy tome. "Rhaegar wanted to know everything I knew about the legend, as he was convinced he was either the Prince that was Promised or that it would be one of his own children. He wanted me to ask the Citadel for any additional books on the prophecy that might have information he didn't know. They sent me this—" he pushed the book into her lap "—but sadly I never got the chance to send it to him before he fell on the Trident."

Blinking curiously, she flipped the book open and leafed through a handful of pages. Within a minute she furrowed her brows, puzzling over the pages. The untidy scrawl was already hard enough for her to make out, but the ineligible text was written so tiny and the ink was so faded in some places it made it even harder for her to decipher. Even the little she could read she didn't fully understand, as there were so many places where sentences would fade out randomly or there were words she already didn't know.

"' _The… The earliest known war was… was when the Andals'_ — I can't really r-read the rest, here. I can't read the writing — _'T-They were led by'_ — the ink runs off, it's too faded, here — _crossed the_ _… N-Narrow Sea. Upon landing on'_ — more f-faded ink — _'were appalled by'_ — messy writing again… for quite awhile — _'the North.'_ That's the end of this paragraph. It's like that for m-most of the book." Frowning, she glanced back up again. "What is this?"

"I told you, Rhaegar was researching the legends of the Long Night and the origins of the legends behind the Prince that was Promised. His research led him to believe that the Andals invasion of Westeros was somehow related."

"H-How so?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Lyaella. He never got the chance to fully explain this theory before he died. I'm terribly sorry for the faded ink and the bad handwriting, though. I didn't realize it was like that."

"No, no, it's okay. I don't… I don't mind," she insisted. That wasn't even a half truth at all. She honestly didn't mind that the book wasn't perfect. What mattered was that Maester Aemon wanted her to see it. He wanted her to see the book her Targaryen paternal grandfather and maternal uncle had been eager to read before he died. No one had ever told her or Torrhen much about the late Prince Rhaegar aside from the publicly known lies and that he and grandmother Lyanna had run away together to secretly marry. That he'd been fascinated by the prophecy of the return of Azor Ahai and his Nissa Nissa was interesting to hear.

And was what she'd just heard from Maester Aemon true? Had he really been working on a theory that the legend was somehow linked to whatever reason why the Andals first came to Westeros? That was the first she'd heard of such. Lady Kinvara was the only person she'd met thus far who she fully believed told her and Torrehn everything she honestly knew about the prophecy. She was the one who told them specifically that the prophecy was supposed to be about both a prince _and_ a princess after all, and that the history needed to be changed so that the Prince and Princess that were Promised could bring the Dawn of Peace for all the world. She told them point blank that their future parents were Azor Ahai and his Nissa Nissa reborn, and that it was up to her and Torrhen to change things in the past to ensure that Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen survived this time around. Up until now, that was the most she'd ever been told about the legend surrounding her parents roles in the War for the Dawn. Before that, the only other information she'd ever heard came from the bits and pieces Lady Melisandre had spoke of in passing, the brief snippets of information Grand Maester Sam had briefly mentioned researching for the war to her and Torrhen during the one time they'd met him, and then the one bit of ominous back story that her creepy uncle had divulged and made public knowledge known to everyone in the future during her timeline: the Night King had been created by the magic of the long extinct Children of the Forest. Why? Lyaella didn't know. Nobody knew. King Bran wouldn't give them a straight answer as to why they did it.

As much as Lady Melisandre frightened her in regards to practice of burning people alive at the stake, perhaps she should consider speaking with her later to find out more about the prophecy itself. The wasn't much she could do at all yet in regards of changing history for the better, but if she was to have any chance of making sure her future parents actually fulfilled their roles in the prophecy this time around, she needed to learn more about it. At the very least she needed to know if what Lady Melisandre mentioned in passing about there possibly being a mistranslation in the legends was true or not. But that was food for thought for later, though. Right now, she really needed to know the basic facts of what the legend was by itself through basic general knowledge. And who better to ask than the very same Targaryen relative her both grandfather and uncle Prince Rhaegar had corresponded to regularly about in regards to this very legend?

"What exactly is t-the prophecy about? I know the stories about… about the Long Night. Everyone k-knows those stories, but… what's the prophecy about?"

Maester Aemon blinked, visibly surprised. "You don't know?"

"Mm-mm, just that the Prince that was Promised was supposed to be destined to become Azor Ahai, and his Nissa Nissa is the Princess that was Promised and supposed to fight by his side."

"Huh… I wasn't expecting to hear that. You continue to surprise me, Lyaella."

"Sorry…"

"Don't apologize, there's nothing wrong with asking questions. How else would you learn?" He paused there, staring blankly ahead as he thought hard. "It's been a long time since I've thought about my past correspondences with my nephew, but if I remember correctly, he said that in the books he'd researched Azor Ahai worked for over a hundred days and nights to forge a heroes sword to defeat the darkness with."

"The… The white walkers?"

"Naturally, but on his first two attempts, he failed. Realizing that a sacrifice had to be made in order for the sword to be finished, Azor Ahai called for his wife, Nissa Nissa, and drove the sword through her living heart."

Lyaella jerked. "W-What?!"

"It was the blood sacrifice of someone Azor Ahai truly loved that was needed to finish the blade. With her soul combined with the steel sword, it became Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes. With Lightbringer in hand, Azor Ahai led his men into battle, driving back the darkness to beyond the Wall. In accordance to this, it was foretold that one day Azor Ahai and his Nissa Nissa will be reborn again to lead us all in the fight against the return of the darkness. If they should fail, the world shall be doomed."

Her stomach twisted into knots, and she gripped the edges of the book tightly with her shaking hands. It was the only way she could stop herself from making any audible sound that would clue in Maester Aemon to how anxious she'd suddenly become. What Maester Aemon had just told her sounded horrifyingly similar to how her father had been forced to kill her mother. She didn't know whether or not any swords had been supposedly made from the actual dagger that'd struck the killing blow to her mother's heart, but her parents had been the only two monarchs to use their armies to supposedly fighting back the threat of the Night King and the army of the dead. All the other kings and queens out there had never taken the threat of the dead seriously, and even she herself didn't fully believe the stories about second War for the Dawn in her timeline, Lyaella did acknowledge that _something_ must be happening out beyond the Wall at this very moment. Why else would she have arrived in the past on the very day that Stannis' army beat back the King Beyond the Wall's army of Wildlings that had been all willing to fight to the death to get behind the safety of the Wall itself? Whether or not that was because of an army of living dead men or because of some other more believable reason was still yet to be determined.

Whatever was going on out beyond the Wall, it was what led to her future parents meeting each other and joining forces, but if the legends told about the original Azor Ahai and his Nissa Nissa were true, then that meant her future father was always meant to kill her future mother. If that was the case, then why had she and Torrhen been sent back in time? What was the purpose to them changing the fates of their parents if they were already the reincarnations if the original heroes that had also loved each other and chose duty over love?

"You're awfully quiet. Did I scare you with the details on the legend?"

Lyaella jumped. She hadn't realized how long she'd been sitting there lost in thought. "N-No, not… not at all! I was just surprised, that's all…" glancing back to the music box and scattered letters, she squeezed the old history book closer to her chest. "Would it be… Would it be possible for me to borrow these things for a little while?"

"Hm?"

"I'd never ask you to give them to me. I'd never do that. I just… I just would like the chance to read through this stuff p-properly. There's something I n-need to check… I'll give them back when I'm done, I promise!"

Maester Aemon turned to face her, his expression curious. "I have no qualms about that, but what exactly do you hope to find?"

She tensed, setting the book aside to fidget with Ghost's fur. What half truth could she tell him that sounded believable? How could she pass off the fact that she needed to see if by some off chance in either this book or those letters that the legends surrounding the original heroes were wrong about Azor Ahai killing his Nissa Nissa?

"I… I'm interested in this stuff, that's all. I wanna find out more."

He tilted his head, still intrigued. "There you go again…"

"W-What?"

"You're doing it again, answering a question without even saying anything," he replied, a subtle smile crossing his lips. "It's very clever, I must say. You come across as an honest girl who has nothing to hide, and yet you keep your secrets tightly guarded anyway. Not many people have the lick of sense to know how to lie without _actually_ lying."

Lyaella's fingers instantly froze in Ghost's fur. She stared at her blind uncle, eyes bulging. He understood her and Tory's game. He understood Truth or Half-Truth. He knew how she always managed to avoid giving straight answers about anything. She didn't dare say anything further. To talk again would mean telling another half truth to try denying that statement, and that would only further confirm his theory.

He seemed to pick up on her reasoning for her silence after a few moments, and his smile turned thoughtful. "I understand why you feel like you need to keep secrets. Your brother is probably the only person in the world you fully and completely trust, and he's not here. The rest of your family has never been to kind to either of you, you've said, and you endured so much pain already due to their indifference over how you and your brother struggled to belong while growing up."

Her lower lip trembled, and she hastily turned away. She was not going to cry. She was _not._ She was going to sit here, keep her mouth shut, and not give away any details regarding how she was from the future and that Jon was secretly the last true-born son of Rhaegar Targaryen as well as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. She was not going to tell him that. She was—

"That being said, why are you so afraid of your secrets themselves?"

Lyaella blinked, hesitantly glancing back over. "What? Afraid?"

He nodded. "You become so quiet and hesitant to say anything if someone asks you for details about you or your brother. I can understand why it would be… understandable to be wary of strangers at first, but I thought we were getting to know each other rather well at this point. It was my belief that you were slowly beginning to trust me more, or perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it was just the hopeful wishing of an old, dying blind man who thought he'd pass on before ever seeing a member of his own family alive and well once again…"

"No, of course not! I do trust you, Maester Aemon. I… I'm so sorry if I made you think I don't…"

"Well, that's good to hear," he chortled. "I want you to know that you don't have to be worried about me telling anyone about your secrets if you don't want me too. I only wish to help."

She averted her eyes, still unsure. "But…"

"Lyaella, aside from my niece all the way across the Narrow Sea and your missing twin brother, you are the very last of the once great Targaryen dynasty. The blood of the dragon runs through your veins. Had things been different, you would've grown up with the proper Targaryen surname, in the halls of Dragonstone or the Red Keep. You would've learned to speak High Valyrian before the Common Tongue. That you've been forced to grow up hidden from the rest of the world here in the North…" he shook his head, his white eyes glistening. "You cannot imagine how painful it is for me, seeing you like this."

"Right… b-because I'm stupid little girl who's an embarrassment t-to your House," she whimpered, her shoulders shaking. "S-Stuttering all the time, timid and shy… terrible at s-swordplay, never brave enough to… to speak my mind and defend myself… and my stupid lung problem! I… I'm a nothing 'cause of my relatives! A Snow! I d-don't deserve to be part of House Targaryen!"

She completely burst into tears, unable to hold them back any longer. It was the truth, after all. Not a half truth, but the complete, undeniable truth. It didn't matter that it was a bitter pill to swallow, accepting those facts for herself, but it was still the truth. She wasn't a proper Targaryen. She was just one more Snow in the world. A Snow that everyone else in Westeros would always hate more than any other bastard because of her silver hair.

Sōnar rumbled sweetly, and Ghost pressed up against her legs. She gently patted them both, grateful for their comfort. Thank goodness they were both here for her right now. If anything ever happened to her beloved dragon sister, her heart would probably die, and being reunited with her father's sweet direwolf made everything seem so much better now.

"On the contrary, Lyaella, you exemplify the very best traits of our House in ways that warm my heart, because they are always overlooked in comparison to the terrible things that our family is known for."

She abruptly stopped crying, her eyes snapping back to his.

"It's true you're no Visenya reborn with a sword, but you train every day to become her, and even when you start feeling winded you don't give up. Your asthma might cause you problems, but now that I'm aware of your condition, I can teach you how to manage it better. Your stuttering is simply a side effect of you not having much self-esteem. Don't think I haven't noticed how it occasionally goes away when you relax and be yourself around others. And as far as not being brave or speaking your mind goes, I have no idea what you're talking about. You are one of the bravest little girl's I've ever met."

Lyaella stared at him, deadpanned. "Wait… what—? N-No, I—"

"Listen to me and listen well. You, Lyaella Snow, are the only person in all of Castle Black who is brave enough to tell off Alliser Thorne for his discriminative judgement over Lord Commander's Snow status as the late Lord Stark's bastard son when he was still giving _you_ proper respect as a Targaryen bastard. Why do you think everyone in the Main Hall was stunned by how you spoke to him about his attitude? He was the acting-Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, once a loyal knight sworn to serve House Targaryen, and yet a Targaryen bastard child politely made a point of not only correcting him on how to say her name which he was continuously mispronouncing, but also made sure to remind him that it wasn't right of him to treat Jon rudely for being a bastard and yet you kindly instead."

Lyaella was grateful her elderly uncle was blind, or else he would easily seen the way her cheeks burned as hot as dragon fire. "I…! I w-was only being honest! I-I-It was incredibly rude of h-him to be like that! I w-wasn't… I wasn't trying to be brave…!"

"That doesn't matter. The point is you are the only one who's ever spoken up about it. And you were so polite and firm while doing it, too. Thorne couldn't even argue back because you were absolutely right. If that's not enough proof, then consider this — you alone and no one else here at the Wall — including me — has the courage to tell Stannis Baratheon the plain and simple truth of how he's not really a king."

She swallowed, her fist wandering up to her neck to fiddle idly with her dragon pendant. "Well… that's… that's j-just—"

"Don't sell yourself short. The Wildlings don't consider Stannis as their king, but as they're not real Westerosi in Stannis' eyes, they don't count. You alone are the only one here at Castle Black who willingly tells the stag king that he's is not the rightful heir simply because he's not a Targaryen. Not many people would ever consider stating something that potentially treasonous out loud, let alone to a king claimant themselves. You might be shy, but you are indeed brave, Lyaella. You're bravery is simply hidden by your lack of self-confidence. If you were to overcome that, I'm positive one day you will become the living embodiment of why others should never try waking a sleeping dragon."

Lyaella couldn't think up a good response to deny that this time. She simply squeaked and looked away, her face still pink. She could see where a Maester Aemon was coming from, but she wasn't entirely sure if she believed it. It really didn't feel like she'd been brave in either of those instances.

"I know things cannot have been easy for you or your brother, and if I had the power to bring him here right now, I would, Lyaella. But the fact remains that you might very well be the last remaining hope for all of House Targaryen here in Westeros if my niece never crosses the Narrow Sea. If she doesn't—"

"She will."

" _If_ she doesn't and your brother is never found, then you and your dragon will be the very last of the Targaryen dynasty. I don't have much time left, child. I'm growing weaker with each passing day, but before I go I want to be of some help to the only family member I have been given the privilege of meeting before my time's up. These old letters here? This old book? The music box? They're yours, now."

"W-What? No, those… those are yours! I-I-I couldn't possibly—!"

"They're _yours_ now, Lyaella," he said firmly, taking her hand and pointedly giving her the silver key. "These things are dear to me, that's true, but they don't belong with an old, dying man here at the Wall. They belong with someone who both understands their importance and has a chance of restoring our House to greatness someday. Even if that never happens, they belong to you regardless. As the only Targaryen left in Westeros, I'm only alive because I was already sworn the Night's Watch when the Usurper took the throne. Had I simply been. A maester in the Red Keep at the time, I would've been killed just the rest of our family. I wanted more than anything to go fight for our House when I first heard about the rebellion, but I was already old by then, Lyaella. I had no hope of being any help whatsoever."

He paused there, taking a moment to wipe away a few watery tears. Lyaella could stare, unsure where he was going with this.

"It broke my heart that I was forced to stand aside and do nothing when Robert's Rebellion was raging, and when I heard that all our family aside from Viserys and Daenerys had been slain, I was horrified. I don't know how whichever one of your parents with the Targaryen blood was overlooked during that time, but the fact that you're here now… it's a miracle, Lyaella." He smiled at her, tears still streaming down his face. "I want you to have these things, as they are part of the history of our House. You might not have our House's name, but you have our blood. They belong with someone who has a chance of ensuring that House Targaryen will have a future again. There's even one more thing I wish to give you, but I still can't find it."

"There's s-something else? No, please, don't go to any trouble on my account! I told you, I can't—"

"I wish to help the only member of my family I can help, Lyaella. You. I want you to accept these. If not for yourself, then for my sake. Take them and make an old man happy that he can pass on his treasures from days long gone to someone who deserves and will appreciate them."

A thick lump gathered in her throat. There was no way she could refuse him now, not without offending her kind uncle. Swallowing thickly, she unfastened the class of her necklace and slid the key through the chain. "Thank you… I'll treat them with respect, I promise."

"I know you will, Lyaella. Believe me, I know," he said. "And again, I want to help you, Lyaella. Now that I know that you've been medically mistreated in the past for your asthma, I can do more than just give you proper remedies. I can have Sam write to the Citadel in my stead and see to it that whoever that maester was that gave you that outdated tonic loses his chains."

Lyaella blinked, her mouth going dry. "Huh? N-No, you—"

"I know you're scared. I know you've lived under the thumb of your relatives for your entire life. I suspect that whoever that maester is, he's the only one who's ever treated you for your asthma and you therefore don't wish to deal with him ever again. But I just told you that I want to help the only member of my family that I can in the little time I have left. I can't do that unless you trust me with at least that bit of knowledge. I'll do everything I can to keep you sheltered here at Castle Black if you're relatives come looking for you or your brother here, and I'm certain the Lord Commander wouldn't hand you back to them if they come here demanding we release you. I want to help you, Lyaella, but you have to let me."

It was uncannily silent in the small workroom aside from the crackling flames in the hearth. Sōnar had finally drifted off to sleep and was curled up like a kitten in her corner, and Ghost was simply sat next to her ankles as he stared up at her, his red eyes boring straight into hers. Lyaella let her hands disappear into his white coat again, but inside her thoughts were racing.

Maester Aemon wanted to help her, and he was family. He'd been treating her more like family in the short time she'd known him than in all nine years she'd spent in Winterfell with her Stark relatives. If there was one adult she could undoubtedly trust with the truth of who she was and would not use that information in some way to play his own games with to better himself, it would undoubtedly be Maester Aemon. Sam was kind and seemed like a true friend to her future father, but she still didn't know how he would react to when her future mother executed his father and brother. Ser Davos seemed as kind and honorable as she and Torrhen always remembered him being in this timeline, but he was still allied with Stannis right now. Hence why she was reluctant to approach the old smuggler and bond with him. Lady Melisandre probably _would_ help her regardless of her current allegiance to Stannis if she told her everything about the future... but aside from considering asking her for more details about the prophecy for the Prince and Princess that we're Promised, she still didn't want to have too much involvement with the Red Woman. Not when it was going to be her fault why Shireen was going to die soon.

Shireen. Her first and only friend aside from Torrhen and their animal companions. If she wasn't supposed to die soon she'd consider telling her, regardless of her Baratheon heritage. She was the only girl she'd ever met close to her age aside from her brother who had treated her like any other normal child. It didn't matter that House Baratheon and House Targaryen had such a bloody history because of the Usurper. They were friends. Or at least they had been, anyway. Between her mother's frightening warning to stay away from her daughter from now on and how she had turned down her father's offer to help him win the Iron Throne, it was unlikely she'd be allowed to go anywhere near the little doe of House Baratheon again.

Aside from them, there was only one other person she would be willing to trust aside from Maester Aemon with the truth — Jon — but she couldn't do it. Even if Lady Kinvara hadn't warned her and her twin against telling their parents who they really were until 'the time was right,' she still wouldn't do it. Jon hated her right now. That had been made apparent to her yesterday. He didn't want anything to do with her. That hurt her more than other sharp smack or slap she'd ever felt, and it cut her deeply. Jon didn't want her hanging around him anymore. Fine, she wouldn't. She'd stick close to him for however long it took to find Torrhen again and to meet their mother eventually on Dragonstone, but she'd give him his space from now on. So long as she could still do whatever it was she had to in order for both him and her mother to survive this time around, it didn't matter if he didn't like her. She'd endure that pain if it meant that someday when she is born to Jon and Daenerys she could live a happy life with them, Torrhen, and their honorary siblings.

But she was getting off track. The question remained on whether or not she should tell him her secret. She trusted him, but what if telling Maester Aemon was a mistake? Not that she doubted his loyalty, but what if telling him instead of someone else could have a devastating impact on the future? Lady Kinvara warned her and Torrhen to only tell people they fully trusted that they were from a timeline that had to be prevented from coming true. She told them point blank that if the wrong people were to find out who they really were in the past, there could be devastating consequences for the future. Maester Aemon seemed like a good man, but what if telling him was still the wrong choice over someone else? What if—

A low whine reached her ears, and Lyaella was abruptly pulled from her thoughts. Ghost had wandered away from her during her long internal debate, and was now sitting and panting quietly at Maester Aemon's side as he stared back at her with a wolfish grin. She stared back at him for a moment, and then finally sighed. She still hadn't explained to Ghost who she was exactly, but her future father's direwolf was just so smart. What were the chances he already instinctively knew who she was? That he could tell what she was thinking right now and was giving her his stamp of approval to trust Maester Aemon with her secret?

That was all Lyaella needed to know… but it didn't hurt seeing Sōnar sleepily opening one eye and rumbling softly as she jerked her head in Maester Aemon's direction, too.

Well, that settled that, then.

"You can't."

"Hm?"

"You can't. You can't help me."

Maester Aemon sadly sighed. "Lyaella, I'm not sure what else I can say or do to convince you, but—"

"You misunderstand. I meant… you can't help me with Maester Marlon."

He straightened at that, now listening attentively. "Maester Marlon? Is that who's been giving you that owl's blood tonic?"

"Yes, that's him."

"Well, no worries. Now that I know his name, I'll send for Sam and have him—"

"No, I mean, you really _can_ _'t_ help me when it comes to him. You can't write to the Citadel about a maester who doesn't even know I exist yet."

Silence filled the room. Dead silence. Maester Aemon frowned at her, tilting his head with obvious puzzlement. "I… I beg your pardon, Lyaella?"

She bit her lip, slowly averting her eyes. "W-What… What I'm about to say, no, to tell you… it's g-going to sound crazy. I-I-I won't blame you if you don't believe me or think I'm mad…"

"Lyaella—"

"Please! If… If I tell you everything, then you've gotta promise to hear me out fully and not tell anyone! No matter what!"

"Promise? What—?"

"You have to! You have to _promise!_ Swear on… Swear on the souls of every Targaryen that's ever lived you'll keep this to yourself! Y-You can't tell _anyone!_ Especially not Jon!"

"The Lord Commander? What does—"

" _Promise me!"_

For a long, tense second, Maester Aemon stayed silent, his expression unreadable. If there was ever a moment before now that she wished her elderly uncle wasn't blind, it didn't hold a candle to how much she wished he could see her now. Were he not blind, she knew he'd see the raw pleading in her face and understand how serious this was. She could only pray he could pick up on that fact from her words alone.

"Why must I promise this?" he asked finally. "Why is this so important?"

"Because it is."

"Lyaella—"

"I can't give you a better answer than that because I don't want to give away details to someone who might put two and two together the second I say anything. Just… Just know I wouldn't otherwise ask this of you if it wasn't necessarily. So, please! Please… _promise me._ _"_

He bent his head, considering her request, then finally nodded. "Very well, I give you my word, Lyaella. I give you my word. I won't tell anyone."

"P-Promise…?"

"I promise."

Lyaella smiled, self consciously tucking a loose strand of silver hair behind her ear. "Okay, then…" she paused, taking a deep breath for strength. "Maester Aemon… what if… What if I were to tell you that you haven't actually been as alone here at Castle Black for the past few years that you thought you were?"

"Pardon me?"

"What… What would you say if I told you Robert's Rebellion was built on a lie? And what would you say if I told you that the whole truth as to how me and Sōnar got separated from Tory and Shadow is because… because we come from about twelve years in the future?"


	13. To Tame an Angry Direwolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised you all that I would try not to leave you all waiting so long for the next chapter, and sure enough, I kept that promise! This chapter has come out exactly three weeks after I posted the last one! It would have been up a few days ago, but I had to do some serious self-editing over a few parts. In all honesty, I only got midway through editing scene three before finally deciding that the chapter was probably good enough at this point because I was starting to get bored and disinterested in editing and found myself easily distracted from doing it. I also would still be writing this chapter if I had followed my original outline for this chapter and included one more scene at the very end, but I realized when I was finishing up scene four that the perfect way to end the chapter was with scene four and starting with the next planned scene at the beginning of the next chapter would be a great way to start it. This therefore makes today's chapter significantly shorter than the last two, but for all of you out there who have been complaining about how long the last two chapters were, hopefully you'll be appeased with today's length! To those of you who liked the long chapter word counts, sorry! I just happened to make this chapter shorter since it worked better that way! Can't give any estimates in advance as to how long a chapter will be, they just come out how they come out, lol! At least you all didn't have to wait two months this time to keep reading! :P
> 
> I also would like to note that because of how I had to rethink a few things when outlining this chapter regarding how these next few Torrhen-centric chapters will play out, it's very likely that we will be sticking with him for another two chapters before focusing back on Lyaella at the Wall, but no promises as of yet! Depending on how much I can get into the next chapter with what's supposed to be happening in Torrhen's storyline, we may still be able to keep him at two chapters like usual, or we may have another rare chapter where the focus is half on Lyaella, and the other half on Torrhen. Again, no guarantees as to what will happen since I still haven't outlined the next chapter.
> 
> IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ THE FOLLOWING PARAGRAPH:
> 
> That being said, I also want to take a moment and state that now that places are reopening because the COVID pandemic is doing better, I might have to slow down in my writing again while I look for work. Don't misunderstand! I'm NOT going to stop writing for awhile again like I did in May as I look for a job! I'm just saying that while I send out resumes to art/animation jobs and even turn in applications to part-time jobs in my local area, I might not be writing as much anymore. I'm officially a community college graduate and I need to get a job! That's a fact. Period. I really should have started doing this months ago after I finished my freelance gig, but the minute I finished it, everything with COVID happened and the whole world was basically on shut down. No one can blame me for not wanting to go get a job at that time, lol! But now that places are reopening, they are also rehiring. This is my chance to find work, and I'd be stupid not to take it! So yeah, while I look for a job, I might have to slow down my writing a little bit, and if I'm lucky enough to find work before I finish the next chapter, whatever hours I work might also require me to replan my writing time. That's not something I can even begin to plan for yet though, so I can't make any promises on how fast the next chapter will come out. I just wanted you all to be aware that there might a slight delay for whenever the next chapter is finally online. I need to find a job, so my days of devoting myself exclusively to writing/artwork are ending since this pandemic can't keep me locked inside my house glued to my computer anymore, lol!
> 
> Now, onto the story stats! 494 kudos, 125 bookmarks, 15181 views, and we beat the comment goal again with 322 comments! I'm so, so happy! Thank you all, dear reviewers! I send each and every one of you virtual hugs! *Virtuals hugging!* :D
> 
> As for the new comment goal... how about we try to reach 360 this time? That's only 38 comments I'm asking for all together. You guys have been great with dominating the comment goal for the past few chapters, so I think you guys can do it! Come on, everybody! Tell yourselves when you're done reading that you'll contribute to the comment goal! Every comment I see helps me stay motivated to keep writing, so please, please comment when you're done! :D
> 
> I think that's everything that I need to cover, so without any further adieu, please enjoy the chapter! And again, leave a nice, wonderful comment when you're done! ;D
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> \- Elphaba818

Lacing up his new boots, he hopped off the bed and took a few experimental steps forward. He was pleasantly surprised they fit so well. “Hmm… not bad. Not like my Northern boots, but still good. Not so thick and heavy, at least… What do you think, Shadow?”

Shadow’s tail swayed, red eyes silently trailing after him as he paced back and forth across the solar.

“Aye, I guess they’re good… Dunno what to make of these clothes, though. I feel like I’m only half-dressed without my cloak!”

His direwolf lightly panted, still listening attentively.

“Aye, I know it’s… _different,_ but what else can I do? Mother’s handmaiden got me this weird outfit. My Northern clothes are too ruined from that fight with the Harpy’s, and even if they weren’t, they’re too hot for Essos. I needed something cooler to wear.”

Shadow quirked his head, whining lowly under his breath.

“I know, and I agree. I look like one of those Southern monkey’s, now.”

Torrhen stared at his reflection in the looking glass, unsure whether to smile or frown. He appreciated that his future mother had Missandei deliver him fresher, cooler clothes to wear in place of his overly hot Northern apparel, but still… it felt weird to be wearing this silken sleeveless orange shirt and lightweight tan britches. With his sword belt already strapped to his waist, the only thing he wasn’t wearing was his pewter gray black cloak, but it was unnecessary thanks to the hot weather. It was annoying having to drag it around everywhere, but he was a Northerner. He was used to that. To be wearing clothes in a brighter color scheme than his usual blue outfit and for everything he was wearing to be designed to repel heat instead of retaining it for warmth was nothing short of bizarre.

“This stuff’s so soft… it’s weird! Too airy! I can’t believe these are actually _clothes!”_

There was a pitter-patter of paws trotting along the marble floor, and then he spied his direwolf brother’s reflection in the looking glass, calmly appraising him as he planted himself right by his side.

Torrhen chuckled. “Well if nothing else, I guess I look somewhat more Targaryenish now,” he mused. “This shirt’s orange instead of red, but at least it’s a bright orange… And I’m not wearing any black anymore, but with you by my side, bud, you throw the black into my new look. And it’s a good thing you’ve got red eyes. You even look like a Targaryen direwolf!”

Shadow panted, butting his head under his arm.

Running his hands through his pal’s thick fur, Torrhen grinned and faced himself in the looking glass again. “Okay, this is it. You are Torrhen Snow, twin brother of Lyaella Snow, and one of the very last members of House Targaryen, regardless of your last name,” he told himself firmly. “Your sister and your dragon are missing, and you’re worried about them, but you’re here in Meereen right now with Shadow, and at long last, you’re finally in Queen Daenerys’ court. You know she doesn’t believe you are related to her yet, and that hurts… but you’ve gone through hell to get here so you’re going to change her mind. You alone are the only one who can ensure your future mother never becomes the Mad Queen. Your concussion’s finally gone, so you’re gonna march up to her right now and go talk to her! You’re gonna keep your temper in check and calmly talk about her mistakes here in Meereen, and try making her see you’re telling the truth about being related! You can do it! No, you will do it! The future depends on it!”

Shadow cocked his head at him, mewling inquisitively.

Torrhen pulled a long face at his friend. “What? A little pep talk never hurt anyone. Now, come on. We gotta try to find Mother before we report to Ser Barristan for squiring duties.”

Shadow yipped. Torrhen smiled, giving his wolf one more scratch behind the ears before leading the way out into the hall. At long last, the Ghiscari healer had told him yesterday he was finally healed up enough from his head trauma to be back on his feet. Torrhen was beyond thrilled. Not only could he finally track down his future mother in this pyramid and talk to her the way he’d always dreamed of talking to one of his parents, he could finally begin his squiring duties for Ser Barristan. He — Torrhen Snow — was going to be squiring for the legendary Barristan Selmy! The very notion was enough to put a bounce in his step and had him grinning from ear to ear. Such a tremendous honor, and he was beyond grateful to Ser Barristan for giving him this chance.

Glancing curiously into each open archway room they passed, Torrhen frowned. “Hmm… she’s not in there… or in there… or in this one… Where d’you suppose her chambers are, boy?”

Shadow stayed silent, merely glancing up at him as he trotted along.

“Maybe they’re not on this level? D’you think they’re maybe up on the next — oof!”

“Oh! I’m so sorry!”

“No, no, it’s alright. It was my fault, I wasn’t paying attention. Sorry…”

Brushing himself off, Torrhen took a step back and glanced up apologetically at the dark-skinned young woman he’d collided with while turning the corner. Missandei smiled kindly in return. “I’m glad to see you’re finally up and about. You didn’t bump your head again though, did you?”

Torrhen chuckled, gently rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Not really, more like smacked my nose rather than my head itself. I’m fine.”

She lightly laughed. “Good, good. Judging by how many times you tried sneaking out of that room while on bed rest, I’m sure the last thing you want is to go back and deal with even more head trauma. I’m very sorry.”

He shook his head, waving her apology away. “Again, no big deal. I just wasn’t looking where I was going. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“It’s no trouble, but you seem rather lost right now. Are you trying to find something in particular here in the Great Pyramid?”

Torrhen eagerly nodded, idly stroking Shadow’s black coat. “I was looking for the queen’s chambers, Lady Missandei. I was hoping to talk to her for a little while before I go find Ser Barristan for my squiring duties.”

She blinked, surprised. “You wish to see her grace?”

“Aye, my lady.”

“I… I was just going to see her myself, to help her prepare for the day. I have nothing against allowing you to see her, but she’s not presentable yet, Torrhen. You might have to wait awhile.”

“Oh, okay. If you can take me to her rooms, I’ll wait outside until she’s ready, then.”

Missandei was taken aback by his insistence, but after a slight pause she motioned him to follow and led the way in the opposite direction down the corridor. “I don’t suggest you wait directly outside her chambers, but I’ll show you to where you can wait in the hall itself if you really wish to see her right away.”

“That’s fine. Thanks.”

“I must say, you’re quite eager to speak to her grace.”

“Of course I am! She’s the whole reason I’m here, after all. I’ve gotta prove to her I’m not lying about being related to House Targaryen, not to mention talk to her about Meereen itself.”

She glanced at him, puzzled. “Pardon? What was that you just said about Meereen?”

He shrugged, completely nonchalant. “I’ve got stuff I need to talk to her about the city, Lady Missandei. I know Meereen’s still rebuilding from that earthquake and things are tough right now, but I was out there on the streets for months. I’m sure she’s doing the best she can to get everything back to normal, but some of things I saw… I’m worried about how she’s handling it, and how the people are reacting to her decisions. No one looks twice at a street rat, and the stuff I heard…” he shook his head, unwilling to say more just yet. “I really must talk to her, my lady. It’s important!”

Missandei carefully considered him for several moments, though Torrhen couldn’t quite read her facial expression. It seemed to take an eternity before she finally nodded. “I’ll talk to her if you’d like, tell her that you earnestly must discuss something with her.”

“Really? Thanks!”

“Of course, but I need to know a few more specific details first before I relay this to her grace. Can you tell me more about—”

“Ah, there you are, Missandei! Our queen’s been expecting you!”

They looked up. They’d been so engrossed with chatting, they hadn’t seen the Commander of the Second Sons exiting a certain archway entrance further down the hall being guarded by several Unsullied soldiers, all while straightening his leather armor.

Torrhen couldn’t help but frown as Daario approached. That room being guarded by the Unsullied must be his future mother’s chambers, but why was Daario leaving them so early in the morning? Sure, he was on his way to see the queen, too, but if he hadn’t bumped into Missandei on the way here and found out she wasn’t ready yet, he could have waited a few minutes for her to come out and see him. Why would Daario Naharis need to see the queen this early?

If Missandei’s thoughts were the same as his, Torrhen didn’t know. Her face was carefully neutral as she nodded in greeting. “Captain Naharis. You’re up early.”

“The queen summoned me,” he grinned, strutting towards them. “Requested my presence specifically.”

“Just now?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Maybe I’ve been here for hours already. What do you think?”

Missandei had no visible reaction to his comment, but Torrhen shifted in place slightly, on edge. He didn’t know why, but something in Daario’s voice made him uneasy. He sounded cocky, but also… something else. Torrhen wasn’t even sure what it was, exactly. He’d never heard anyone use such a strange tone before. He didn’t like it, whatever it was. Not when it was on Daario’s face when talking about his future mother.

Daario’s eyes then fell on him, and his smirk only grew. “Morning, Little Prince. You here to sweep the queen off her feet?”

Shadow’s red eyes stayed locked on Daario as he quietly growled, so lowly Torrhen knew he was the only one who heard. He was glad his wolf did, because that glint in Daario’s eyes was still there. “I told you before, I’m no prince.”

“Oh? And what else could you be?” he teased. “The rightful king instead of our beautiful queen, perhaps?”

“No,” said Torrhen, clenching his fists. “I could never be king with my last name.”

Daario snorted. “Oh, of course. You’re just a Snow. You could never hope to wear a crown. Bastards are nothing in Westeros.”

Torrhen fumed, glaring daggers. “What do you want, Daario? I’ve got something important to talk to the queen about, so what do you need with her this early?”

“Oh, nothing much, Daenerys summoned me herself. She couldn’t bare to be away from me for a second longer than necessary, I suppose… what with my many talents.”

“Talents?”

“Every woman appreciates a man who knows his stuff, Prince Snow,” he chuckled, folding his arms behind his head. “They like men with experience, not innocent little boys. Remember that.”

“Captain Naharis, enough. He’s just a boy.”

“Fine, fine. My apologies, Missandei.”

Despite his rising temper, Torrhen couldn’t help but quirk his head at Missandei as she fixed Daario with a pointed look, yet he snickered and waved her off. He was beyond puzzled. “Experience…?”

“Oh? Still don’t know about the ways of the world? Well, when a man loves a woman—”

_“Captain Naharis.”_

“What? He’ll have to learn sometime, right?”

“Who’d wanna learn anything from an arrogant prick like you?!”

Missandei’s expression became twice as cold, but Daario completely disregarded her as he threw back his head and laughed. “Trust me, Prince Snow, you’ll be grateful for this education someday. And the day you put this knowledge into practice? Single best day of your life!”

His cheeks puffed red, his whole body trembling with rage. “Stop calling me a prince, and whatever you’re talking about, that’s bullshit! The best day of my life will be when I finally find my sister again!”

“Oh, yeah? Well, you know Targaryen’s were famous for marrying close kin together. If you really are telling the truth about that, you should consider losing your innocence that day. Make it all the more memorable…”

“That’s enough, Captain Naharis. You are insulting my squire.”

The trio turned. Ser Barristan was now walking down the corridor, his face stern as he stared Daario down.

But Daario only smirked in return, not so easily ruffled. “It was only a joke, old man. No need to get so uptight about it.”

Ser Barristan didn’t look pleased, but he let it slide and turned his gaze to Torrhen. “Glad you’re feeling better, Torrhen.”

Torrhen smiled. “Morning, ser. Aye, I’m feeling much better. Eager to start squiring for you today, too!”

Ser Barristan didn’t smile back, though. He only raised a brow. “Are you? I’m not so sure. After our discussion the other day, I’d have thought you would’ve remembered that we talked about how good knights are always respectful to others—” his gaze flicked to Daario briefly before focusing back on the boy “—and why didn’t you report to my solar immediately upon waking?”

He couldn’t help but scowl at the not-so-subtle reminder about being respectful to Daario, but upon hearing the second half of the knight’s statement, Torrhen blinked. “Report to you? What do you mean?”

“Part of your duties while serving me include helping me prepare every day. I expect you to be at the door to my chambers every morning ready to begin your morning duties.”

“Oh, uh, sorry. I’ll make sure to do that starting tomorrow. I didn’t know…”

Ser Barristan studied him for several moments, then slowly dropped his stern gaze. “All right, as it’s only your first day, I’ll forgive you, but see to it that you are ready to begin those duties first thing tomorrow.”

“Aye, ser. And what exactly am I supposed to do for you every morning? I mean no disrespect, Ser Barristan, but I thought squires just trained to be knights. Doesn’t that mean you’re supposed to teach me how to become a strong fighter?”

“Squiring is about more than just sword fighting, Torrhen. You also have duties to carry out if I request them of you. Part of your morning duties include bringing me my fast from the kitchens, keeping my solar and clothes clean, and polishing my sword and armor.”

Torrhen gawked, dumbfounded. “What? I’m… I’m a servant?”

Daario slapped his knees as he cracked up. “Not just any servant, Prince Snow. You’re a glorified servant!”

He whipped around, shooting him a poisonous look. The arrogance of this man truly ticked him off. “Say that again, asshole!”

“Gladly. You’re a glor—”

“Enough, both of you,” Ser Barristan sharply cut in. “Daario, stop taunting my squire. Torrhen, I just told you to be more respectful. Apologize, now.”

Torrhen ground his teeth, aggravated, but obediently turned to the sellsword. “Sorry…”

Daario just grinned. “Whatever you say, little prince. Whatever you say.”

“Don’t call me—!”

“That’ll be all, thank you. Come along, Torrhen. I’ll show you where the kitchens are and where you can collect my meals.”

And with that, Ser Barristan wrapped his arm around Torrhen’s shoulders and steered him away.

Torrhen wished he could have finished snapping at that arrogant fuck, but he kept his mouth shut and simply waved goodbye to Missandei as they walked off. As happy as he was to finally be out of that tiny room and allowed to explore the Great Pyramid as he liked, it was still a shame he couldn’t see his mother straightaway. Hopefully by the time he finished doing whatever squire duties Ser Barristan wanted him to do, she’d agree to meet him for a few minutes if Missandei relayed his request to speak to her later.

“Don’t let anger cloud your judgment, Torrhen,” said the knight quite suddenly, making Torrhen glance up. “You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders, so I don’t want to see you go down the same downward spiral as… well…”

“As the last mad monarch?”

Ser Barristan sighed. “…Yes, exactly. I can see you’re easily short-tempered, but you mustn’t let your emotions get the better of you. Understand?”

“Aye, ser,” he mumbled, folding his arms. Shadow nudged him a bit as they walked on, but Torrhen paid him no mind. If he did anything other than just walk beside the knight with his eyes locked dead ahead, he’d let his anger break through again. He didn’t want to disappoint Ser Barristan. He’d been so good to him so far, and he didn’t want to earn the nickname of The Mad Prince in this timeline. Not that he was a prince, anyway.

He would have to bury his rage deep inside from now on. He was not going to succumb to Targaryen madness just because of his short temper. Never in a thousand years would he let that happen.

Never.

* * *

The soft sound of approaching footsteps made her straighten and turn. Entering her chambers was her dearest friend and fellow adviser.

“Good morning, your grace. I apologize for my tardiness.”

“Good morning, Missandei. It is no trouble, really. Would you help me select a dress for today?”

“Certainly, your grace. Did you have a particular color in mind?”

“White, please. And the silver dragon choker to go with it.”

“Of course, one moment.”

Smiling kindly, Dany stepped away from her balcony window and joined Missandei at the wardrobe. It still astounded the young queen that she actually had more than one dress to wear and could store them in a wardrobe, let alone lived at the top most level in the master suite of the Great Pyramid. After Ser Willem died, she had spent most of her life living on the run, only occasionally invited people’s homes as guests when her idiot brother tried to beg for help in supporting his claim as king. Even when they were lucky enough to be guests for a short time, no guest bedroom held a candle to the luxury of her solar here in the Great Pyramid. Were it not for her upbringing of knowing what it felt like to have nothing and knowledge that this room had likely been made by thousands of slaves who’d probably been killed before the pyramid was fully built, she would have loved her room more than any other place in the pyramid. The only thing she couldn’t find fault in loving about this chamber was the view. The view from her balcony was breathtaking, and she loved gazing outside whenever she could. With any luck, perhaps she’d see Drogon flying on the horizon one of these days. Her precious son had only visited her once since he left, and that’d been months ago now. She could only hope he was all right and would return soon.

Missandei soon selected a striking white silk dress, and held it up for the queen to see. “Will this do, your grace?”

“Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you, Missandei.”

Smiling politely, Missandei laid the dress out on the bed for her and quickly stepped aside to gather things together at the vanity table. As grateful as Dany was to her friend for always helping her look her best every day, she drew the line when it came to clothes. She appreciated her help in selecting what she would wear each day, but unless she required assistance in tying off the back or undoing particularly tricky buttons or pulls, Dany preferred to dress herself. She was a queen, but she would not permit her best friend to act no better than any other handmaid slave by making her dress her like a doll. No, it was her hair braiding and daily face powdering that Missandei really helped her with.

Slipping on the gown, Dany carefully knotted the simple tie around the back of her neck and appraised her reflection in the long floor-to-ceiling looking glass. Nodding in satisfaction, she turned and approached her friend.

“Why were you so late this morning, Missandei? I don’t mind, of course,” she added, sweeping aside her skirts and sitting down on the vanity stool. “I was simply wondering.”

“Forgive me, your grace,” Missandei said, turning to grab a comb. “I ran into Torrhen on my way here and we were talking.”

Dany’s breath stilled. “I see… Did he sneak out from his chambers again?”

“No, no, your grace. He was cleared by the healer yesterday to finally be up and about, remember? He’s perfectly all right now.”

“Ah, that’s right. It slipped my mind. I’m glad to hear he’s doing better.”

“Indeed, though while we spoke we were interrupted by Daario, and then Ser Barristan found us. He took Torrhen away to begin his duties as his new squire.”

“Oh, that makes sense. Let us hope that that boy adjusts well to his new role as Ser Barristan’s squire. But enough about that. Did Daario go on ahead to speak to his men about relaying my message?”

Missandei blinked, slowly setting down the comb. “I — I don’t know what you’re speaking of, your grace,” she said, carefully weaving her hair into its trademark braids. “What message?”

Dany frowned. “Did Daario not tell you? I called him here because I need his men to relay to Hizdahr to come this afternoon. We must discuss his plans regarding the restoration of the city.”

“Oh? Is that the reason? Torrhen and I both saw him exit your chambers, but he didn’t tell us that. He… Well, he made it sound like his visit to you was more of a… a social call.”

From her reflection in the looking glass, Dany’s face quickly switched from neutral to shocked with the span of a single blink. Then, ever so slowly, it contorted into absolute fury. It took every bit of willpower she had to fix her face back into a neutral mask.

“He did, did he?” she said, her tone quite clipped.

“Yes, your grace.”

“And in front of that boy, too?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, still keeping her emotions in check. She had no shame in letting Missandei know her innermost thoughts, but she had to keep her emotions from outwardly showing right now. It was good practice for when she met with strangers in the future. “Tell me, did that boy understand what I think you’re telling me?”

“No, your grace. He had absolutely no idea what was being implied.”

“Good. It would be terrible for a child that young to know the full extent of such crudity. Please remind me later to reprimand _Captain Naharis_ for such vulgarity in front of… our _guest.”_

“…As you wish, your grace.”

In the looking glass, Dany studied the way the corners of her friend’s mouth shifted downward as she spoke, carefully keeping her eyes focused on her clever fingers rather than meeting her gaze in the reflection. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing is wrong, it’s… it’s just…”

“Speak your mind, Missandei, please.”

“Well, I was thinking… it’s strange to hear you speak of Torrhen so formally. I’d have thought you would’ve been eager to spend time with him after he revealed his lineage.”

Dany froze. “I… Well, I… You see—”

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, your grace. I was only curious, but if you don’t wish to discuss this, I understand.”

She forced a light laugh, waving away her friends’ worries. “It’s quite all right, Missandei, really. I don’t mean to be ignoring him. It’s just that I haven’t been able to make the time to go see him. The city is falling apart and on the brink of civil war, and there are still so many people who are starving or homeless from the earthquake. I’ve been working so hard with Hizdahr to get Meereen back on it’s feet. As much as I would like to spare few minutes to go see our guest and find out how he’s doing, I can’t. Not until the city is stable again will I be able to rest.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. She was busy every day trying to bring peace and stability back to Meereen. It was a cumbersome job being a ruler, and it left her mentally drained by the time she finally retired every night. However, it didn’t wear her out so much that she couldn’t spare an hour or so to speak to the Westerosi boy who had arrived in her court. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to get to know Torrhen Snow, it was just that looking at him made her remember her little Rhaego. Her precious little boy with her Sun and Stars… She never even got to hug him or kiss him once, let alone hold him. She’d sacrifice everything just to go back to that moment when she’d foolishly believed that spiteful witch and scream at her younger self to not listen to her lies.

She couldn’t voice any of this out loud, though. Not that Missandei wasn’t trustworthy, but because speaking about it would not help. She wanted to forget the hole that had been left in her heart in the days before her dragons were born. If she talked about it, she’d be forced to remember and relive the tragedy in its entirety. She couldn’t subject herself to that pain. No, she _wouldn’t._ That was all in the past. She was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, and Breaker of Chains. She was a queen, and as queen, she could not afford to wallow in her grief when Meereen was suffering and the Lannister’s still sat on her family’s throne. She would do what needed to be done, no matter the cost.

“But your grace, things are already doing better for the people in terms of rebuilding. We received the report yesterday that the builders received the equipment they need to construct the new homes. It might be all right to slow down a little.”

Dany squeezed her hands tightly on her lap to hide her inner turmoil. “Well, maybe. I suppose I could look over the reports one more time and see if things are doing better overall. If things are looking better, I’ll consider visiting him later. We’ll see, Missandei.”

Missandei was quiet for a short time as she finished weaving the last few strands of silver into their usual intricate braids. As soon as Dany nodded her approval of today’s hairstyle, she gathered the face powders and sweet perfumes and began coloring her eyes.

“I suppose you have a point, your grace. Getting the city back to it’s usual state is indeed important, so forgive me for saying so, but I do think you should make time to go talk to Torrhen at least once today. Even if you’re unable to really sit down with him, spare a few minutes, at least. While we were talking, he told me he has things he wishes to address to you regarding the city that he saw while out on the streets.”

It was lucky that Missandei chose that moment to gather more eye coloring, because the queen jerked her head slightly in her surprise. “I beg your pardon? What do you mean?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you anymore than that, my queen,” said Missandei, dusting her other eye. “He didn’t tell me any details, but I do think he had legitimate concerns about Meereen that he wanted to speak to you about rather than just whining about his treatment on the streets. He might be a bit short-tempered, but he seems like a good boy. Hasn’t attempted to harm anyone with that huge wolf, anyway.”

Dany lightly laughed. “Yes, you’re right, there. I don’t know how he ended up on this side of the sea with a pet like that with him.”

“An unusual choice of companion, I must say,” Missandei agreed. “Though nowhere near as unusual as dragons being back in the world.”

“Quite true, my friend. Quite true.”

“And if I might add to that, your grace, I got a good look at Torrhen’s face when we spoke, and I noticed his eyes. Since he’s healed from his injury, I could finally discern their proper color.”

Dany stiffened, the significance of this statement impossible to ignore. “And?”

Missandei smiled. “Neither he nor Ser Barristan were lying, your grace. They do appear to be violet. Just like yours.”

Her mouth went dry, her mind racing with a million thoughts all at once.

Torrhen really did have violet eyes? Targaryen eyes? Was he really telling the truth about being related to her? Were they really family? Was… Was she not alone anymore as the last Targaryen?

She nearly smiled, but then a certain baby boy with tufts of dark hair flooded her thoughts. A baby boy wrapped in furs and nestled in the arms of her departed Drogo.

Her baby boy. Her baby boy with violet eyes.

Dany thickly swallowed, shoving the memory away. That one vision in the House of the Undying would haunt her for the rest of her life. The promise of home, of a family to call her own. Curse Mirri Maz Duur and her awful blood magic! She didn’t just kill Drogo and her innocent son, she’d cursed her to never have a family. Her womb would never quicken again, would never swell with child. She’d never be a mother to anyone other than her sweet dragons. So she mustn’t think about Rhaego anymore. She couldn’t look back on her mistakes. She wouldn’t. Not now, not ever. If she looked back, she would be lost.

“Perhaps he’s telling the truth, then. Or perhaps he and the missing twin sister he mentioned have a parent with some Valyrian ancestry in their family tree.”

She was proud of herself for how strong she sounded while saying that, but it melted away when she saw the gentle confusion in Missandei’s eyes as she finished the last touches of her face powders.

“You don’t want to believe him, your grace? I don’t understand…”

Dany waited for Missandei to slip the dragon choker around her neck before shaking her head. “It’s not that, Missandei. I do want to believe him.”

“Then why don’t you?”

She sighed. “His story is just… it’s unbelievable. I don’t understand how he and this sister of his could live in Westeros at all with the Usurper on the throne. And they have a dragon, too? Why have I never heard any whispers of such coming from the west? Who were their parents? Their relatives? Ser Barristan… he came to me the other night after talking to Torrhen. He told me everything that boy revealed about his aunts and uncle. The things he told me…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “I don’t understand… It’s so impossible it seems like one big lie, yet from the little I’ve seen, he doesn’t come across as a liar… It makes no sense.”

“All the more reason you should go see him, your grace. You won’t get any answers unless you ask him.”

Dany sighed. She knew Missandei was right. She had to stop postponing this eventual talk with Torrhen if only to get straight answers to her questions. If only there was some way she could confirm that Torrhen truly _was_ a Targaryen bastard without having to subject her heart to the painful memories he unintentionally brought up by his very presence.

That’s when it hit her. She jolted, eyes wide. There _was_ a way to find out. It was so obvious, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it sooner.

Missandei tilted her head, concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, Missandei. Nothing is wrong,” she claimed, now smiling. “I simply realized what I must do to find out if he’s lying or not.”

“Oh, you’re planning to see him later, then?”

“Yes, I am,” she assured her. “I will talk to him… but on my terms.”

“Your grace?”

“Anyone can lie, Missandei. That’s a natural fact in life. But some things cannot and will not be believed by people until they see proof of it. Well, I must see for myself if he’s really half-Targaryen. I must test his Valyrian blood.”

* * *

Torrhen was in a bad mood. A very, _very_ bad mood.

After Ser Barristan had showed him his room in the pyramid and went over all the details about how he would conduct his morning routine serving him from now on, he’d asked him if he wanted to go out to the barracks now and start his other duties. He’d eagerly said yes, as he was excited to finally start training with the legendary knight.

Oh, how naive he’d been.

A low whimper reached his ears, and he huffed, knowing exactly what it was. Wiping a trail of sweat from his brow, he threw aside the thin rag he’d been using to polish the knight’s armor and glared hatefully at his direwolf. “Shut up.”

Shadow lounged about happily in the cool shade of the pyramid walls. Head resting on his front paws, his red eyes followed his young master’s every movement as his tail softly swayed back and forth.

“Stop wagging. _Now.”_

Soft whine. More wagging.

“Hey! I mean it!”

Wag wag wag. Whimper whimper.

“Shadow, enough! This is _not_ funny!”

That was all it took. With those words, Shadow let out a low bark as he stuck his backside up in the air, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he panted and wagged twice as hard.

A vein ticked in Torrhen’s forehead, his temper flaring. Shadow had his name for three particular reasons. The first being that when Torrhen first saw him, he’d known right away he wanted his pup’s name to be reminiscent to Ghost’s name in some way, that way Ghost’s spirit and his father’s love would always be remembered. The second was because when Shadow was a pup, he followed him around everywhere like a second shadow. Plus, he and Lyaella had grown up in their timeline in the lingering shadows of their parents mistakes. It seemed fitting.

But the third reason? Shadow would occasionally yip, whine, or whimper for attention, or even growl threateningly if he was upset or trying to protect him or Lyaella. Howling was rare for the direwolf, but unless he was sad or trying to play music on the rare occasion he listened to his young master and mistress when they begged him to howl along with their music, he hardly ever did it. But generally, that was it. It was quite seldom for the wolf to make any other sounds than that, hence he hardly ever barked.

And when he did bark, it was only for two reasons: either he was desperate and unable to attract attention in the event of an emergency… or he was amused and happy that he couldn’t help himself.

In this case, his barking was the latter. And that only pissed his boy off even more.

Torrhen growled, shoving aside the chest plate he’d been cleaning to fully face his friend. “Stop it, boy! Stop barking right this minute!” he demanded. “You’re… You’re insulting me!”

To his dismay, Shadow not only kept barking, he barked even _louder_ as he trotted forward, delivering wet, slobbery kisses to his boys’ face.

“Ugh! No — Shadow, no! — Bad direwolf! Bad!” he snapped, doing his best to shove his friend away. “Stop it! — Stop — Hey, no! N-Not there! — _Bleh!_ Shadow, gross! How many times do I have to tell you, ‘avoid the lips?!’ _Seven fucking hells!”_

Shadow was unfazed by his disgust, and kept licking harder.

“S-Stop! Cut it out! — I’m serious, boy! — _No! Not the fucking lips!”_

“Is there a problem, Torrhen?”

Ser Barristan’s voice was evidently the only thing that could make Shadow stop, because quick as a flash, his ears perked up and his kisses stopped mid-lick. He stepped away from Torrhen to sit down nicely at his side, tail still wagging as he gazed up innocently at the old knight.

Torrhen didn’t even spare his liege knight a glance of acknowledgment. He was too busy trying to wipe the excess drool off his face. “Ugh…! Goddammit, Shadow! Was that really necessary?! I’m drenched!”

His direwolf merely cocked his head at him, panting loudly with his tongue hanging out.

The nonchalance of it all only made Torrhen’s blood boil. “Don’t act innocent! That was disgusting, and you know it!”

Ser Barristan chuckled, kneeling down to pat Shadow’s head. “Spirited friend, you have, Torrhen,” he murmured. “Just as unruly as you are.”

He scowled. “I swear, I’m gonna shear off all his fur and use it as the trimming in a new cloak,” he growled, his glare cutting. “Maybe that’ll teach him to quit sticking his tongue in my mouth!”

A low growl emanated from the back of Shadow’s throat, hackles slowly rising.

“Don’t you growl at me! You deserve it! I’ve told you a million times, Shadow! No — kissing — my — mouth! I don’t want your direwolf germs!”

Yipping furiously, Shadow spun around and marched back to his previous spot in the shade, back turned to his young master.

“Hmph! Fine, be that way! But you’re not sleeping in my bed tonight, so get used to the pillow in the corner!”

Shadow yapped, annoyed, then plopped down without another sound.

Ser Barristan chuckled again as he shook his head. “You two are a perfect pair, I must say. Both as stubborn and free-spirited as the other.”

Torrhen let out an empty laugh. “As if!” he snorted, seizing the rag and tugging the chest plate back on his lap. “He’s drenches me to the bone in those disgusting kisses when he’s excited! I don’t stick _my_ tongue down _his_ throat whenever I laugh at him!”

“No, I daresay you don’t,” the knight agreed, laughing openly. It took him a few moments to gather his composure, then promptly focused back on Torrhen. “How’s it coming?”

Torrhen huffed, showing him the half-polished chest piece. “Slow. Very slow. It’s taken me ages just to do this much, though I did finish the arm braces.”

“Ah, good. Very good.”

“How long will this take? You said you’d train me for awhile after I polish this stuff.”

“That’s entirely up to you, Torrhen. On how fast you work on each piece.”

“Argh! By the time I’m done with this, it’ll probably be dark!”

“And if it is, then we’ll train in the dark.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Every good warrior knows that they must train every day without fail in order to sharpen their skills. Take one day off, and you will know. Take two days off, and your peers will know. Take a week off, your enemies will know.”

“Then why don’t we just train right now and I’ll polish this stuff after?”

Ser Barristan’s eyes twinkled. “Because if we did that, then you’d have no incentive to teach yourself how to swiftly yet skillfully polish your own armor someday.”

Torrhen blinked. “Huh?”

“Keep working, Torrhen. The faster you finish polishing my armor, the sooner I start going over the basics in swordplay with you, and we’ll have more time to train, too.”

With one last nod, Ser Barristan rejoined the group of off-duty Unsullied sparring with each other as they trained.

Torrhen sighed, furiously resuming his polishing. This was so stupid. When he agreed to become Ser Barristan’s squire, he’d been honored and eager to learn from the legendary knight. He hadn’t realized he’d be little more than a servant in the knight’s employ when he took the job. Curse the North for their disinterest in knighthood! Had he realized what the full obligations and duties that being a squire entailed, he would have thought twice before saying yes. These stupid chores were cutting into precious time he should be using to get to know his future mother. He’d already wasted the past few months trying to get into the Great Pyramid just to meet her. Now he had to wait even longer to talk to her.

Time ticked past, slower and slower. It took ages to scrub away the last bits of dust and sand from the chest plate, and his whole arm was sore and achy as he reached for the shin guards.

Torrhen groaned as he worked away at the metal. “Ugh, this is pointless… Why polish it when it’s just gonna get dirty again…?”

Tossing aside the rag, he slumped back on the ground to stare up at the sky. He was beyond exhausted, and he hadn’t even started training yet. Did Ser Barristan only take him on as his squire just to get his own personal errand boy? If he really wanted to help him grow up into a strong, respectful knight, he’d be teaching him fencing right now and quizzing him on how true honorable knights would react in certain situations.

Closing his eyes, he let the hot Essos sun blaze down on him as he listened to Ser Barristan and the other Unsullied sparring a short ways off. Yet the longer he listened, the more the clashing steel resembled a rhythmic beat to his ears. He sat up fully, his eyes still shut as he listened harder.

_Clang. Clang. CLASH!_

_Clang. Clang. CLASH!_

_Cla-Clang. Cla-Clang. CLASH!_

Over and over again went the beat, each note delightfully followed by a heavy grunt or groan as the men kept sparring. Not to mention that just off in the distance, he could distinctly hear the tremors of at least a dozen or so men marching in perfect unison and harmony. The Unsullied out in the city must be conducting a patrol somewhere nearby.

Clapping a hand over his eyes, Torrhen smiled as he lightly swayed back and forth a bit from his spot on the ground. It was beautiful. A perfect melody of sound, music only he could hear. He might not have his sister’s talent for thinking up perfect lyrics and rhymes when writing songs, but Lyaella couldn’t hear music anywhere, anytime like he could. Music was everywhere for Torrhen to hear, all he had to do was listen. And what he heard right now? This was the perfect beginning for a possible war song! Maybe he could write a song about his mother’s legacy as a conquerer, ending slavery here in Essos. Sure, it might take him a bit longer to write it since he was also working on that song about his quest to find Lyaella again, but this war melody was in his head now. Even if he only worked on the musical score itself and waited until he finally found Lyaella again to think about the lyrics, that was fine. What mattered was ensuring he remembered this tune later.

He snatched the cloth and frantically kept polishing. The sooner he finished cleaning everything, the sooner he could ask Ser Barristan for a quick break to run upstairs and write down this idea. He couldn’t let himself forget this amazing melody. He wasn’t sure how exactly he’d be able to replicate the sound of clashing steel later when composing this new piece, but for now he could at least jot down the overall beat. Until he could slip away for a few minutes, he couldn’t let himself forget that tempo in the meantime.

“Clang, clang, _clash!_ Clang, clang, _clash!_ Cla-clang, cla-clang, _clash…!”_ he murmured under his breath, his polishing arm picking up speed in time with his whispers. “Clang, clang, _clash!_ Clang, clang, _cla—”_

“What’s that you mumble, boy?”

Torrhen casually glanced over his shoulder, but upon seeing who spoke, he hardened, burning hatred instantly coursing through his veins.

A certain soldier was right behind him, his chest still heavily bandaged and his face betraying his exhaustion just from walking all the way here from his quarters. A certain Unsullied soldier. The one soldier Torrhen despised almost as much as the selfish Starks.

“Grey Worm,” he gruffly greeted, clutching the rag and shin guard tighter in his fists. “I’d thought you’d still be on bed rest.”

“I should be, but I not check Unsullied training since I get hurt,” he said, nodding politely. “I come check.”

Clenching his teeth together so hard his jaw throbbed, Torrhen forced a stiff nod. “Well, they’re over there,” he grumbled, glaring daggers at the shin guard on his lap as he resumed his furious scrubbing. “Go watch, if you want.” He couldn’t let himself look at this man. He had to focus on the war melody in his head and polishing the last few pieces of Ser Barristan’s armor. If he didn’t, there’d be no way he could ignore the red hot rage coiling in his at the mere sight of the soldier.

Grey Worm. The Commander of the Unsullied. His mother’s top military adviser. And the fucking asshole who was just as responsible as to why his father was dead in the future as the Starks were.

“I see them from here. They look fine. Haven’t lost their skills since I last check their training process.”

“Hmm. Good,” he said flatly. He didn’t care if he was coming off as rude or distrustful to everyone else. He needed to be angry right now, even if he didn’t let anyone know just how furious he was while out in public. Words were not enough to explain how much he hated this man.

All their lives, neither he nor Lyaella had ever truly wished for their cruel relatives to die. They were terrible people and it would only be a good thing for the world if they did die, but neither of them had ever dreamed or joked about one day killing Queen Sansa, Lady Arya, and King Bran for the things they’d done. There were other things they’d fantasize doing to the Starks if there was some way they could get justice for their parents as well as the themselves for how they’d grown up, but they never planned to kill them. They didn’t want to stoop to their level and turn into kinslayers, and privately they agreed that death was too good an end for the things that their aunts and uncle had done.

But Grey Worm? Grey Worm was a whole other matter. Torrhen didn’t understand why Lyaella didn’t hold any hatred towards the fucker for what happened to their father. It was ultimately _his_ insistence that punishment be issued for his queen’s death that Jon Snow died in the original timeline. Justice was dealt out against the wrong person because this stupid, terrible man didn’t demand justice against those who were truly responsible for why Queen Daenerys died. The only person Torrhen had ever seriously wanted to kill in his life was this man. And now to be stuck in the past in a place where he’d be forced to see Grey Worm every day before he made that stupid decision…

But that was only the primary reason as to why he hated this soldier. The other reason? That was much more important, at least to him. He didn’t know how Lyaella had overlooked this matter when they learned what happened to their parents, but he would never talk to her about it. She’d already been shattered by everything they’d endured that horrible day four years ago. It’d been the worst day of their lives, and it only got worse later that same night. That little chat they accidentally overheard between their cruel aunts and uncle? Life changing moment. They learned everything that night. Everything that happened to their parents, how their relatives plotted their deaths, and the reasons they did what they did to their supposed-brother and the woman he loved… not to mention the cruelties they’d done to _them,_ too.

As for Grey Worm… Torrhen had realized something else about the man when hearing Queen Sansa, Lady Arya, and King Bran talk. It only made him hate the man even more. But unless someone else realized it too, he’d never voice this out loud, not even in passing to Sōnar or Shadow. He’d never risk anyone finding out his other reason for hating the Commander of the Unsullied. If even one person knew, there was a chance that Lyaella might hear about it through the grapevine. He was the big brother, she was his little sister. He’d never let her fall to pieces from grief and self-pity should she figure it out.

Scowling to himself, Torrhen tossed the finished shin guards towards the other pieces and slowly got up, stretching his arms. Thank goodness those had been the last two pieces. He had to get away from this man right away. He’d promised Ser Barristan he’d try harder at controlling his temper from now on, and being near this son of a bitch was a surefire way to make him lose it.

It was a miracle he’d kept his anger from boiling over when his mother revealed Grey Worm’s name. Regardless of his help in saving his life, Torrhen had no intention of changing his opinion of the man for what he’d done in the original timeline. Were it not for him and his stupidity, he and his sister would’ve been happier. Even if they were still treated like shit by the Starks and every other Northerner, they would’ve at least had their father. Having even one parent who loved them while growing up… things could’ve been so different for him, Lya, and their honorary siblings.

Actually, scratch that. They _definitely_ would’ve been different. They would’ve grown up in his care, happy and carefree just like other children. Not stuck with their cold, heartless aunts and unfeeling uncle. Maybe in another timeline they could’ve had that life. Torrhen doubted he and Lyaella would’ve been nearly as hateful and bitter about the Starks like they were now. Probably a little bitter at least if their schemes still resulted in their mother’s death… but depending how often they saw their relatives and how the Starks treated them in return, perhaps they could’ve have grown to like them. Maybe they would’ve forgiven them for their selfish plot for power. But that would never happen in this reality. He and his sister could not and would _never_ forgive them. Not now, not ever. Not even if all three fell to their knees and begged for forgiveness. Forgiveness just wasn’t possible, not when they might do the same thing in this timeline as they did in the first one.

Hence why Grey Worm was equally at fault. Were it not for him, things could’ve been different. Stupid brainless fuck.

Pointedly ignoring the injured soldier, Torrhen tossed aside the rag and gathered up the scattered pieces of armor. It was all quite heavy, but the boy made sure to keep a good firm grip on everything as he trudged across the training yard.

“Ser Barristan! Ser Barristan, I’m done!”

A smile tugged on Ser Barristan’s lips as he saw him approach, and nodding a polite farewell to the soldier he’d been about to spar with, he motioned for Torrehn to follow him back to the sidelines with the armor pieces.

“Here you go, ser,” he told the knight, passing him one of the shin guards. “Did I do okay?”

“Hmm,” he murmured, eyes narrowed as he inspected it carefully. “I’d have to say… yes. Yes, you did a fine job, Torrhen.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. Took you a little longer than I would have preferred, but you’ll get better with time.”

Torrhen’s smile slowly faded away. “Wait… I’m gonna have to do this again? Right now?”

“No, no. Now you will assist me in helping me put on my armor, just as you’ll help me later in removing it. But you will be cleaning my armor daily after training from now on, today only being the exception so I could see how well you did before being worn out from sparring.”

“Oh,” he mumbled, not daring to say more. Wonderful, simply wonderful. Was he still honored and happy to be a lowly squire? Oh yes, he was _thrilled._

“Very good. Now, if you’ll kindly help me suit up, we can finally get started.”

It took a few minutes, but at last Ser Barristan was ready and nodded to Torrhen to go find some basic armor to use for himself. Finding a basic chest plate his size, Torrhen strapped it on and hurried back to the knight.

He grinned eagerly. “Ready when you are, ser!”

“Just a moment, Torrhen. You forgot something.”

“Huh?”

Patting his shoulder, Ser Barristan marched back over to the armory and rummaged about. It took him a few seconds, but finally he found what he was looking for and turned back around.

“Here, mustn’t forget this,” he chortled, passing the boy a small shield his size, it’s metal surface heavily scratched and dented in several places. “No good knight forgets either his sword _or_ shield.”

Torrhen blinked at Ser Barristan, then promptly shook his head. “I didn’t forget, Ser Barristan. I didn’t grab a shield on purpose,” he said, trying to pass it back.

Waving away the offered item, Ser Barristan tilted his head, puzzled. “I beg your pardon, Torrhen?”

“I don’t use a shield. I’m a Northerner. We hardly ever train with them.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot that fact. Well, from now on you’ll have to grow accustomed to using one, Torrhen. A good shield can offer a great deal of protection when you really need it. I find it a thousand times more important than a sword alone.”

“What, really?”

“Of course. Sometimes, the best offense in a fight is a strong defense. Now, come along. I want to get a better idea on what your skill level is.”

Torrhen nodded, eagerly trailing behind. Finally, Ser Barristan was going to train him. The knight that had served both his maternal uncle and paternal grandfather Rhaegar Targaryen was going to train him to fight. Were it not for how awkward and heavy the shield felt strapped to his arm, he could’ve jumped for joy.

Moving to the sparring area, the other Unsullied who’d been practicing all this time paused and glanced over curiously at the pair, intrigued to see how skilled Torrhen Snow was. Even on the sidelines, Shadow stood up with a slight yawn and trotted closer to keep an eye on his boy, and Grey Worm moved to another barrel to get a better view. Torrhen did his best to tune them all out and keep his attention on Ser Barristan alone. Despite his short temper, he wanted to show Ser Barristan that he was a strong, capable of fighter and worthy of learning from him.

Drawing their swords, Torrhen waited for Ser Barristan to give the go ahead, and at his cue, he charged forward with his blade held high. Every swing of his sword the knight was easily able to counter, but aside from ‘letting’ Torrhen hit him once or twice, everyone could tell he was struggling. He hadn’t been lying when he said he’d never used a sword and shield during training. More than once he mistimed a step due to the shields’ weight throwing him off, and he’d barely have enough time to dodge or parry the next attack. It was less than five minutes before Ser Barristan broke through his defenses and had the tip of his blade under his chin.

“Y-Yield!” Torrhen gasped, panting heavily.

Ser Barristan nodded and stepped back. “Not bad, Torrhen. Not bad at all.”

Sheathing his training sword to undo the straps of the shield, Torrhen cocked his head at him, bewildered. “Say that again?”

“Good first effort. Could’ve gone better, but still not bad.”

“You’re kidding, right? I was almost as bad as Lyaella with a blade right now, and she’s _awful_ for a beginner. This shield is so weird to me. If I wasn’t using it, I’d be doing loads better!”

“All the more reason you should keep practicing with it, Torrhen,” he chuckled. “I’ll see how you do when fighting with a sword alone another time. For now, we must get you accustomed to using a shield and increasing your speed.”

Torrhen blinked. “My speed?”

“Of course, there’s a great deal that must be taken into account during battle, Torrhen. You can’t rely on brute force and strength alone if you hope to win.”

“I… I can’t?”

“No, you can’t. You must learn to read your opponent as you fight, predict their next moves before they even think about it. Imagine if you were fighting with somebody and they suddenly feinted left, but then attacked you from the right. The stronger swordsman does not necessarily win the end. It is speed! Speed of hand!” he suddenly whirled around, his blade a silver blur as he swung it against a nearby practice target. Torrhen started to gasp in awe, but then the knight spun around to point it back to him, the sharp tip only a few inches away from his chest. The boy yelped and leapt back, alarmed. Ser Barristan smiled, lowering it a few moments later and tapping his temple. “Speed of mind.”

Torrhen frowned. “If that’s true, then why make me use a shield? It’s heavy, so it slows me down.”

He chuckled, amused. “If you weren’t using it, you wouldn’t be able to build up the muscles in your arm to grow accustomed to it, nor would you be able to train yourself to move faster when using it.”

“Oh…”

“Keep arm firm in front of body, all the time,” said a familiar, heavily accented voice. “Think of it stiff as sword.”

Torrhen whipped around, brows already furrowing. Grey Worm was slowly approaching from the sidelines, hand pressed firmly against his bandages to relieve his pain.

He clenched his teeth and pointedly looked away. “What was that?” he grumbled, focusing back on the honorable knight.

“Shield arm,” Grey Worm clarified, stopping in front of the knight and squire. “It feels heavier when arm droops. Keep shield arm steady, strong. Helps.”

“I’m doing just fine, thank you,” Torrhen spat, his tone quite vicious. “I don’t need your help.”

Grey Worm blinked, surprised, but Torrhen didn’t give too shits what he thought. He would never show the Commander of the Unsullied any form of respect. Never.

“Now, now, Torrhen,” said Ser Barristan, giving him a pointed look. “Any good swordsman knows they should always listen to whatever advice more experienced warriors are willing to give.”

“I’m here training under you, though. You’re the legendary Barristan Selmy,” he countered. “I’m following your advice.”

“Yes, but it took me years of training and learning from other skilled warriors to become as good as I am today. I didn’t learn everything I know from only one teacher. It’s unwise to turn away advice from others when it’s being offered.”

Torrhen’s blood boiled, and he squeezed the pommel of his training sword even tighter. Why was Ser Barristan doing to him? Couldn’t he tell that he didn’t want to be anywhere near Grey Worm? His hatred of the eunuch was completely different from his annoyance with Daario and short temper overall. He couldn’t stand the man, and the last thing he wanted was take fighting advice from him.

Still, he was only a lowly squire, and he had to do whatever Ser Barristan asked of him. Huffing hotly, he the knight an icy look before moving his shield arm directly in front of him and making it stiff and firm.

Grey Worm tried to nudge his shield lightly with his hand, and nodded in approval when it didn’t move. “Good. Keep strong and try again.”

Torrhen said nothing, sinking down into a ready stance without even looking at him.

Ser Barristan frowned at his deliberate rudeness. “Aren’t you going to thank Commander Grey Worm for sharing his advice with you?”

“Why bother? I never asked for it.”

_“Torrhen Snow.”_

“What?”

The knight’s eyes narrowed, now feeling a bit angry himself. “I thought we agreed that the path to honor does not involve treating others so rudely or disrespectfully, Torrhen. Thank Grey Worm for his help.”

There was a long pause, then finally the boy turned, his face hardened and dark.

“Thanks…”

“It… It no trouble,” said Grey Worm, visibly confused by his attitude.

Not wanting to think about the Unsullied eunuch any longer, Torrhen turned back to Ser Barristan, ready to spar again. And spar they did. To The boy’s delight, he had a somewhat easier time handling the shield this time around, but it still irked him that it was Grey Worm of all people who gave him that tip. He still had a long way to go to become as skilled as Ser Barristan in swordplay, but he was already doing loads better.

“Better, Torrhen. You held out longer, this time.”

“Aye, thank you, Ser Barristan.”

They kept at it for a while, Ser Barristan occasionally stopping and offering pointers to the boy or correcting him if he made a mistake. Grey Worm stayed close by, fluctuating his time between giving tips on how to properly use his shield and yelling out training drills in High Valyrian to the rest of the Unsullied that were training nearby.

Parrying a fast slash, Torrhen feinted left before swiftly swinging his blade from the right. Ser Barristan easily stepped out of range and with a few well-timed attacks, Torrhen was disarmed and knocked to the ground. “Yield?”

Torrhen groaned, reluctantly nodding. “Aye, yield,” he grumbled, standing and dusting the hot sand off himself then collecting his sword. “This is hard…”

“Nothing ever comes easy in life, Torrhen. Anyone who says otherwise doesn’t know the value of hard work and determination.”

“Aye, I know. Doesn’t make it any less exhausting, though.”

Ser Barristan chuckled. “True, very true. We should stop for awhile.”

“What, already? No way! I can still go a bit longer.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean we stop training completely for today. I simply meant we should move on to training with a new weapon now.”

“A new weapon? Really? Should I put away this shield, then?”

“No, keep the shield. You’ll need it for sure.”

Torrhen was beyond confused, but he did as was asked and sheathed his sword again. When he focused back on Ser Barristan, he saw he was heading back over to a weapons rack, and sifting amongst the spears propped up until he found one slightly smaller than the others.

“Here, try this.”

“What?”

“Take it, see if the weight is good. You’ll be learning from Grey Worm directly, now.”

“What?! Why?!”

“It’s good to be versed in more than one type of weapon, Torrhen. That is one of my greatest regrets from when I was younger, never familiarizing myself with other weapons aside from my sword and occasionally a good bow and arrow.”

“But why a spear? Can’t you teach me how to use a bow instead?”

“I intend to teach you how to use a bow, Torrhen. Just not today. Now, see if you like the weight of the spear.”

With furrowed brows, Torrhen hesitantly took the spear and weighed it carefully between his palms. He had never once used a spear before, so he had no idea if this was either too heavy with its completely metal design, or too light with how easily he could hold it in one hand alone. Still, it seemed comfortable enough. “It’s fine.”

Ser Barristan nodded. “Good, then pay attention to whatever Grey Worm tells you.”

Squeezing the spear tightly to suppress the urge to growl, Torrhen turned to the Unsullied Commander, his expression quite fixed.

If Grey Worm noticed his displeasure, he made no visible sign of it. Instead, he glanced down at Torrhen’s feet and shook his head. “Feet wrong. Keep one in front of other, shoulder length apart.”

Torrhen rolled his eyes, but still kept his mouth shut as he adjusted his stance.

“Spear always in dominant hand. Hold with thumb facing up, fingers spread apart. Spear tip points to sky when not using, otherwise accidents happen.”

He huffed, but swapped the spear to his other hand and tilted it upward. This was so stupid. He didn’t even want to learn how to use a spear, yet he was being forced to learn anyway, and with Grey Worm of all people as his instructor. Couldn’t Ser Barristan have at least asked any other Unsullied to handle this lesson?

Grey Worm nodded in approval, then waved another soldier to come over. Murmuring something quietly to the fellow Unsullied in High Valyrian, the officer passed his spear to his superior then hurried to drag a nearby training dummy a bit closer to where they were at. Returning the spear to the soldier, Grey Worm turned back to Torrhen. “Watch carefully, Torrhen. He demonstrate attacks and holding spear in both hands.”

Torrhen turned to watch, his face sour. The soldier showed off several different ways to attack someone with a spear, including backing away and throwing it directly at the target from a few yards off, the sharp tip impaling the training dummy right through the heart and coming out clean through the other side.

Torrhen’s brows shot up before he could stop himself. “Wow…”

“Yes, impressive, no?” Grey Worm chuckled. “Unsullied start training with spear since younger than you. You lucky to learn from us, boy.”

Torrhen tensed, then gruffly shrugged. “Maybe. I guess so…” he grumbled. Grey Worm frowned, looking very puzzled at his attitude while Ser Barristan narrowed his eyes, but Torrhen made sure not to look at either of them as he stepped past them to the practice dummy. Adjusting the spear, he tried to do a basic thrust. The spear felt so… unnaturally long in his hand, and his thrust missed its target completely. Instead of sinking into the dummy’s chest, it grazed its right side instead.

He scowled at his lack of aim, but as he prepared to try again, a hand fell on his shoulder, halting him before he could.

“It easy to think thrust simple, but don’t do like sword thrust. Spear thinner than blade, so move forward fast and straight. Don’t curve like sword thrust up or down.”

“Okay, okay, already! Give me a chance to figure it out on my own!”

“Torrhen!”

“Well, someone certainly woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. You sure you chose well when you picked that boy to be your squire, Lord Knight?”

Today just really wasn’t his day, was it? If it were, there was no way he’d already be so close to completely losing it before it was even close to midday. Spinning away from the confused soldier and displeased knight, Torrhen whipped around to shoot a certain arrogant sellsword the nastiest glare he could. “Say that again, Daario! Come on, I dare you!”

Daario chuckled, twirling a knife with a decorative golden hilt between his fingers as he strutted towards them. “Which part? Asking the knight here if he regrets plucking you out of all the street rats in this lovely city, or that you woke up on the wrong side of the bed... not that you know what a bed is really for, little prince.”

Ser Barristan and Grey Worm both shot him cold looks, but despite how Torrhen’s sixth sense was telling him that he’d just been insulted, he couldn’t help but furrow his brows in confusion.but Daario didn’t even notice his reaction since Ser Barristan and Grey Worm swiftly shot him hard looks.

Daario wasn’t intimidated, though. “Oh, come on. I’m just messin’ with him.”

“He just boy. Don’t talk like that.”

“Right, and he thinks he’s a long-lost Dragon Prince. He should know what to expect in the future. Though I don’t know why you’re defending him, Grey Worm. He’s being ruder to you than I am of him.”

“Captain Naharis, that’s none of your concern. I shall punish my squire for his behavior as I see fit.”

He openly laughed, idly tracing at the ornamental hilt on his knife with an odd smile. “How? You gonna make him do more boring knightly chores? That’s nothing compared to the punishments the masters dished out to the slaves. Especially if they ever caught them playing with their families with their spears.”

“Captain Naharis—”

“What’re you talking about? What former masters let the freedmen play with spears?”

There was a distinct pause as the adults turned to him. Grey Worm gave him a surprisingly apologetic look before glaring daggers at Daario while Ser Barristan shut his eyes and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Daario on the other hand simply blinked at him in bewilderment before bursting out laughing.

“Oh — you — you don’t—!” he shook his head, cradling his stomach as he laughed even harder. “Oh, wow!”

Torrhen was clutching desperately to whatever wisps of patience and sanity he still had left, but everyone could tell that he was at the end of his rope. The boys’ whole face was swelling a vivid shade of red, his shoulders quivering with suppressed rage. It took everything he had to not give in to his fury. Ser Barristan wanted him to act honorably towards others, even when they were disrespectful to him first. Grey Worm was one thing, but he had to at least try to control his temper around Daario... even when it was apparent the asshole was deliberately insulting him in ways the fucker knew he didn’t understand.

“What — is — so — funny?” he growled.

Daario wiped away a stray tear. _“You,_ Prince Snow. Simply ‘cause you don’t know how to use your own spear.”

 _“Fuck off!_ You wanna see me use a spear?! _Here!_ Watch me shove this down your—!”

_“Enough!”_

“Argh! Let go of me!” Torrhen struggled wildly, but Ser Barristan refused to release his tight grip on his upper arms. As much as he didn’t like using the spear, he did everything he could to keep hold of it despite how Grey Worm pried his fingers off it. But the boy wasn’t at all deterred. He wrestled as hard as he could to break free, never once letting his hateful gaze venture away from Daario’s amused smirk. “Let go!”

Quick as a flash, he was suddenly spun around and nose to nose with Ser Barristan. “Torrhen, enough! Calm down!”

“Calm down?! _Calm down?!_ But he’s-!”

 _“No._ This has gone on long enough.” The knight pointed sharply to another training dummy on the other side of the courtyard, not daring to break his harsh gaze with his hysterical squire. “Go practice over over there.”

“What?! Why should—?!”

“Not another word. Your behavior is unacceptable, and I’ll be informing the queen and Lady Missandei that you’re not to receive dinner tonight as punishment. Go practice over there. Now.”

Torrhen fumed at the injustice of everything, his face so red it looked like it would explode. Everything had already gone so wrong today, and it wasn’t even sundown yet. He wanted to yell even louder, to punch that cocky smirk off that fucking sellswords’ face as he watched him be reprimanded. And the way Grey Worm was staring at him in absolute bewilderment? Five seconds was all he needed to break away from Ser Barristan and whip out his sword to disembowel him. Why couldn’t Ser Barristan see that these two assholes were the only ones who deserved to be treated the way he treated them?

Snarling viciously, he wrenched himself free from Ser Barristan’s grasp and stormed across the courtyard to the other training dummy. Other Unsullied who were training stopped momentarily to stare at him as he passed, but Torrhen was past the point of noticing. Glancing away only once to whistle Shadow over to come join him, he yanked out his sword and swung the blade at the target without breaking his fast stride.

With every swing of his training sword, Torrhen vented out his rage, his head pounding with every hit. It felt good to let it all out, to literally beat out his frustration on something instead of bottling it in. Keeping his anger in check like his mentor wanted him too only seemed to make his inevitable ‘snap’ ten times worse than normal. He needed this. He needed to hit this stupid training dummy so hard, it would be useless for future training sessions. So long as he struck this stupid thing for as long as it took him to get out this roar of rage inside him instead of using his sword on that damn Daario and Grey Worm, he could deal with this. He could ignore the dull throb slowly ebbing its way throughout his skull and keep directing his anger at the training dummy instead of the real sources of his fury and hatred.

He couldn’t control his short temper, that was undeniable. But he still wanted to grow up as honorable as his father and even Ser Barristan. There was no chance in all seven hells that he would ever let himself become known as The Mad Prince.

No way, no how.

* * *

He waited until his squire was fully focused on attacking the training dummy before rounding on the Commander of the Second Sons. “Captain Naharis, was all that really necessary?”

“Aw, come on. It’s just a bit of innocent fun.”

“Maybe to you, but I’m trying to teach Torrhen to control his temper. You riling him up like that isn’t helpful.”

“No? I’d say it’s plenty helpful. If the little prince can’t handle me teasing him, I’d hate to see how he’d react if a Harpy goaded him on.”

Ser Barristan sighed, his patience running thin. He had never been particularly fond of Daario Naharis from the moment he met him prior to the siege of Yunkai, but he couldn’t deny the man’s loyalty to their queen, even if it was for the wrong reasons. These days though there was a small part of him that wished that Daenerys would officially part ways with the sellswords currently in her employ once and for all, especially after everything Torrhen had revealed regarding how they wouldn’t listen to him when he first tried to meet her.

Glancing back over to Torrhen still furiously swinging his sword, he pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Perhaps later on when he has learned a bit of control over his emotions I’ll agree with you then. But right now, Torrhen needs to understand that his attitude must stop, and the best way that can happen is if there’s as few triggers around him to make him angry as possible. So with all due respect, Captain Naharis, please stop antagonizing my squire.”

Daario scoffed, grinning cheerily as he waved away his words. “It’s not like I was the only one riling him up. I just teased him a little, but I’ve no clue what that brat’s problem was with your fellow instructor here.”

Barristan paused. Regardless of his personal feelings towards the sellsword, Daario had a point this time. He glanced over to Grey Worm, schooling his face into a carefully neutral expression. The soldier didn’t even notice his stare. He kept his eyes locked solely on Torrhen across the training field, studying him intensely.

Sighing heavily again, Barristan hesitantly patted Grey Worm’s shoulder to get his attention. “I don’t know what possessed my squire to act so deplorably to you, Grey Worm, but I assure you he will apologize wholeheartedly for his behavior later, when he’s calmed down. I will definitely have words with him about how he spoke to you.”

“It is fine, Ser Barristan.”

“No, it’s not. I don’t like how he let his anger get the better of him when Commander Naharis was deliberately antagonizing him, but I understood why he lost his temper. There’s no excuse though for how he acted towards you. He _will_ apologize if he wishes to stay my squire.”

He nodded, but Barristan could tell that Grey Worm was doubtful that such an apology would actually happen. Resisting the urge to glance back over at his furious young squire, Barristan forced himself to keep his focus on the Unsullied leader. “I don’t know what I do to make boy angry. I there in alleyway, saved him from Harpy.”

“Yes, I know. It’s strange that he’s not being very receptive towards you…”

“You not know either, Ser Barristan?”

He shook his head. “No, but I wish I did. I was only going to have him learn the basics in spears today and have him focus more on using both a shield and sword in the future, but now I have no choice but to have you train him spears.”

“Ser?”

“Whatever his problem is with you, Grey Worm, Torrhen needs to learn to get over it. He has to follow your example as one of her grace’s most trusted advisers as well as commander of the Unsullied. The only way that will happen is if he learns to control his temper around you. The more time he spends learning from you, the better, I say.”

Daario snorted, not even trying to mask his amusement. “Oh, you do, do you? Didn’t you just say you wanted the little prince to not be around any triggers for his anger problems?”

“This is different, Captain Naharis. I’ll admit he will have to learn to be respectful of you and your men soon enough, but right now my main focus is making sure Torrhen is aware that there will be repercussions from now on if he continues behaving this way. However, there’s a difference between punishing him when he acts up all on his own and when he only behaves as such because someone was deliberately antagonizing him.”

“You honestly believe that?”

“Of course.”

Daario smirked, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. “Well, here’s a tip in street smarts for you, great knight: the world is a shitty place. Honor gets you killed, so better to do what you want, when you want to rather than wait around acting like a perfect little Westerosi lord for people to appreciate your good manners.”

Barristan narrowed his eyes, his own temper now rising. “If that’s what you believe, Captain Naharis, then fine. Every man is entitled to his own opinions. But I am a knight. I served as kingsguard to her grace’s father and late brother, and now queensguard to her. I will have Torrhen learn the values of patience and respect to others so he too can become a great knight one day if he so desires. But if you truly believe that that line of thinking is correct, then I shall not trouble you with asking for your assistance in teach Torrhen from now on. I would much rather have him learn how to become a superb fighter and honorable soldier from myself and Grey Worm than have him be instructed incorrectly and go down the wrong path by you or one of your men.”

“Fine, fine. Whatever you say, old man.”

“I would also ask that you not—“

“Quiet. Both of you.”

The knight and sellsword both blinked, turning to Grey Worm in surprise. Grey Worm didn’t meet their gazes, though. His eyes were focused on the ground for some reason, his brows pinched and expression rather puzzled.

Barristan couldn’t help but tilt his head, befuddled. “I beg your pardon?”

“What was that?” echoed Daario, huffing with annoyance. “You got a problem with us or—”

“Shush!” he snapped, swiping his hand to reiterate. “Listen!”

Barristan was still lost as to what Grey Worm was hearing, but he swallowed his questions and listened carefully to their surroundings, and for once, Daario held his tongue and did the same. However, the knight couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. Aside from the shuffling footfalls of the other Unsullied marching away from the training yard to switch out with the other soldiers who were getting off patrol, all seemed fine. There was nothing unusual about the daily hubbub in the pyramid courtyard at all.

He couldn’t help but shake his head as he glanced back at the stoic soldier. “What’s the matter? Everything sounds fine. Peaceful, even.”

“Exactly,” said Grey Worm, finally meeting his gaze. “It’s quiet. _Too quiet._ Where sword training sounds from boy? Why stop? Why no angry muttering?”

The knight jerked, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Daario do the same. Now that he thought about it, it was too quiet compared to when Torrhen initially stormed off. When exactly had he stopped swinging his sword at the training target? When had he stopped mumbling curses under his breath in his haze of rage? Did he leave the courtyard without saying anything? He was in big trouble if he did. He told him to go train by himself so he could calm down — if he took that as an excuse to ditch training all together, he’d be adding one more squire duty to list of daily chores from now on. He hadn’t planned for Torrhen to visit the stables and muck out the manure unless Daenerys planned for a visit into the city and he needed his horse to be readied in advance, but perhaps that would help build character in the boy. His bad behavior needed to stop, especially since he was of Targaryen descent even though her grace didn’t fully believe that yet.

Barristan spun around, ready to march back into the Great Pyramid and find his squire to drag him to the stables, but then he stopped, all thoughts of strict discipline vanishing from his mind.

Torrhen hadn’t blown off his training out of spite. He was still in the courtyard, facing the practice dummy. His back was to the three of them as it had been when he first started slashing at the target, so he wasn’t deliberately ignoring them, but unlike before when he’d been swinging his training sword furiously at the target while spitting insults under his breath, he wasn’t anymore. He… He wasn’t doing anything, actually. He held his sword swung back behind him with his whole body reeled back, ready to strike the cloth stuffing in the dummy attached to the wooden post, but that was it. He didn’t finish the attack. He was just… standing there in that ready position, not finishing the attack. Moreover, his wolf had even gotten up from its shady spot and was nudging his snout against his leg, urging him to move. But Torrhen didn’t budge, neither finishing the fast slash nor even brushing Shadow away from him. He just stood there, ignoring his friend.

Barristan blinked, then pointedly cleared his throat. “Torrhen? Everything all right?”

There was no answer, nor did Torrhen turn to acknowledge him.

“Torrhen, I do not appreciate you ignoring me. What’s going on?”

He still didn’t respond or move.

He ran a hand over his face, fighting back a lengthy sigh. “If you’re upset about me scolding you, you know I told you the other night that I’d be tough on you. I take no pleasure in scolding you, Torrhen, but unless you wish to have more chores added to your daily schedule and want to have dinner tonight, turn around answer me. _Now.”_

But Torrhen didn’t. He just kept standing there, frozen in place with his sword raised high.

Daario chuckled, folding his arms behind his head. “You sure you don’t need to give him a lecture rather than me? I don’t deny being arrogant, but at least I don’t ignore people.”

“That’s enough, Captain Naharis. Torrhen, come here! _Now!”_

The wind lightly tousled his dark curls, but Torrhen still didn’t move. He didn’t so much as flinch at the arrogant comment or the sharp demand from the knight.

Barristan blinked, exchanging a quick look with Grey Worm. It was one thing if Torrhen was being deliberately stubborn out of spite for how he scolded him before, but the boy had a short temper and hadn’t let Daario’s prior snarky comments go unanswered up to this point. Why exactly was he ignoring Daario this time as well as his commands?

“Boy? Boy, come here, please,” Grey Worm called out. “We want to talk… Boy?”

“Torrhen? Can you hear us?” Barristan asked, confusion replacing his previous anger as he slowly approached his squire. “Why won’t you—?”

“—what he deserves, arrogant scum!” _Slash!_ “And then I’ll — woah!”

Barristan jerked as Torrhen seemingly sprung back to life out of nowhere, rambling mid-sentence as though he’d been cut off before while finally swinging his sword at the target. That was odd enough by itself, but even stranger still, Torrhen seemed to get dizzy all of a sudden and teetered forward. He barely managed to drop his sword in time before crashing right on top of the training dummy and toppling with it to the ground.

“Torrhen!”

“Boy, you hurt?!”

“Fucking hell! You okay?!”

The trio raced over, and even other Unsullied who’d been mingling about idly in the courtyard dropped everything and rushed to see if he was okay. Shadow was whining in alarm, pawing the ground restlessly as Torrhen moaned, untangling himself from the knocked over target as he slowly sat up. Clutching his head with one hand, he felt around idly for his friend with his eyes screwed shut.

“Argh…! Fuck! Seven fucking hells…!” he groaned. “Ow!”

Shadow butted his arm, wiggling his furry head beneath it to pepper his boys’ face in worried licks.

“S-Stop that, boy! Please…! No, no kisses!” Torrhen moaned, shoving away his friend and massaging his temples. “Damn. Damn it all…”

“Torrhen, are you all right?” Barristan asked, quickly squatting down and checking him over for injuries. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“Hit your head?” Grey Worm guessed, very concerned. “You dizzy?”

He slowly opened his eyes and looked around, then shook his head, but he couldn’t suppress a slight wince from the sudden movement. “No…”

Grey Worm wasn’t entirely satisfied, though. “How many fingers I hold up?” he asked, bringing his hand in front of Torrhen’s face.

Despite his discomfort, he could still scowl. “Ugh, three!” he snapped, batting his hand away. “I don’t have another cunshy-thing!”

 _“Con-_ cussion, Torrhen. And you can’t blame Grey Worm for thinking that,” Barristan chided, standing and offering Torrhen his hand. “It’s only natural to think you hurt your head again with how you’re clutching at it right now.”

Torrhen rolled his eyes, only to quickly snap them shut again when he happened to catch a glimpse of the midday sun. Kneading his forehead, he reached out randomly until he found his mentor’s hand and let him pull him up to his feet. The boy swayed a bit at first when he was finally up, but with a small head shake he regained his bearings and slowly cracked his eyes open before blinking repeatedly. “I’m okay, I didn’t hit my head. I just have a — ah!” he moaned, rubbing his head harder. “—a headache.”

“A headache? How bad?”

“Ugh, bad. It feels… It feels like someone’s trying to whack me over the head over and over again…”

Daario snorted. “That could be arranged, you know. Say the word, Little Prince, and I’ll have all the Second Sons ready to hit you, if you want.”

Torrhen threw him a cold glare. “Don’t call me a prince, and no. Who in hell would want people to do that for them?”

“No one, but in your case, I’d say it’s necessary. Maybe a few good smacks will knock down that attitude of yours.”

“Speak for yourself, asshole!”

“Enough,” Barristan interrupted. Sending Daario a sharp look to hold his tongue for the moment, he turned back to Torrhen. “Do you need to go lie down, Torrhen? We could send for a healer, if you want.”

“No, that’s not necessary.”

“Are you sure? Concussions can be serious even when people think they’re fully healed.”

Torrhen shook his head, still clutching his scalp with one hand, and absentmindedly stroking Shadow’s neck to calm him with the other. “No, I’m fine, ser. I’m used to getting headaches sometimes after my fire flickers.”

Grey Worm cocked his head, puzzled. “Fire flicker?”

Torrhen immediately froze, his fingers stilling in his wolfs’ fur. He pressed his lips together tightly, staring straight ahead at a few soldiers who were curiously watching them. “Aye,” he said stiffly, refusing to meet his gaze.

”What… What do you mean?” Barristan asked, equally confused. “What fire flicker?”

“…I don’t wanna talk about it. If you don’t mind, I think I will go lie down like you suggested, Ser Barristan. ‘Scuse me.”

Swiping his sword out of the dirt, Torrhen shoved it back into its sheathe before whistling to his wolf to follow him before speed walking to the armory to remove the spare armor he was wearing. Barristan wanted to follow him, but the lad was already removing his armor while walking and had everything returned to their proper places on the shelves before he could even gather his thoughts together. Within less than ten seconds, he and Shadow were hurrying inside the pyramid, not daring to look back and meet anyone’s gazes.

Barristan Selmy was utterly baffled. He might not know Torrhen well yet, but one thing he did know about that boy was that he didn’t generally avoid explanations like this — at least not without deliberately stating that he didn’t want to talk about something. Why had he suddenly run off like that? And why did he get so dizzy and suffer from a splitting headache after just standing still like a statue during the middle of training a few minutes ago? It almost reminded him of how the boy froze up during the middle of that fight with the Sons of the Harpy’s back in that alleyway. At the time, he assumed Torrhen simply hesitated in the middle of the fight out of fear of potentially taking a life for the first time. Now, though? He wasn’t so sure anymore. What was going on with his new squire?

There was brief silence for several seconds as everyone absorbed his sudden departure, but finally a humorless snort broke the tension in the air. “Well, I think it’s safe to say you’ve got terrible judgment when it comes to picking good squires, oh great knight.”

He furrowed his brows, turning to Daario with a distinct frown. “Come again, Captain Naharis?”

He smirked, jerking his head towards Torrhen and Shadow as they vanished through the archway entrance. “I stand by what I told our lovely queen before. That boy’s obviously a liar, but now I also believe he’s downright crazy, even if not Targaryen-bred crazy.”

“What?!” the knight demanded, eyes flashing dangerously. “How dare you suggest such a thing!”

Daario threw back his head and laughed. “How dare I? I don’t know how you can’t be thinking that after all this. You saw him just now, refusing to acknowledge you and then acting all confused when he finally stopped pretending to listen. Crazy. Just plain crazy…” he chortled, lightly shaking his head. “It’s just like that day in the reception hall…”

Grey Worm jerked. “Reception hall? What you mean?”

“He did the same thing when I first met him,” Daario shrugged. “He got pissed when I had one of my men cart him out, started screaming at me. Out of nowhere he just cut himself off in the middle of his ranting and went silent. My men told me later he started yelling again right as they threw him out.”

“Wait… are you implying that he’s done this before? Freeze up like that without warning?”

“Yeah, and then he pretends that he wasn’t even aware of how long he was out of it. Insane, that’s what he is. Insane in the head.”

Ignoring the flabbergasted stares on Barristan and Grey Worm’s faces, Daario chortled to himself as he strutted off. The pair let him, though. Quick glances to each other revealed mirrored looks of worry.

Barristan’s throat bobbed. “Grey Worm, do you remember the fight in the alley?”

“Yes, I remember. Why?”

He sucked in a breath, glancing back to the training dummy his squire had been using before. “You… You recall how Torrhen simply… well, stopped in the middle of the fight for a few moments?”

Grey Worm nodded, pensive. “Yes. Seemed like now, him frozen.”

“I was thinking the same. However, I didn’t get a good look at him during that fight. Did you?”

“What?”

“The healer that checked him over before, he asked about how Torrhen looked when that happened. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t give him a straight answer since I couldn’t see his face at the time. Did you see what he looked like?”

Grey Worm blinked, then promptly shut his eyes, thinking hard. After several long seconds, he finally shook his head. “No, I kill last Harpy at time. I just won when I saw boy hit head and scream. I go help, but like I told you, I thought he froze out of fear back then. Now? I don’t know…”

Barristan sighed. “That makes two of us, then. The healer seemed worried when I was explaining that.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea…”

Grey Worm frowned, then slowly glanced over at the entrance back into the Great Pyramid. “I don’t know why boy stop like that, but… but I don’t think he do it on purpose. He seemed confused by it.”

“Yes, yes he does… but I get the feeling he knows that it happened. If he does, why did it happen at all?”

Silence overcame them as neither could think up a logical answer to that question. Torrhen Snow had serious anger management problems, but it seemed he had additional issues as well. Strict discipline was required to temper out that attitude of his, but whatever else was going on with that boy needed a different approach to understand and address. They didn’t understand it yet, but it was clear Torrhen needed help. Otherwise—

Barristan shook his head, a muscle growing taut in his cheek. He wasn’t going to finish that thought. Not for anything. Torrhen might have problems and needed guidance, but the young boy he’d met in the marketplace had shown no signs whatsoever of being mad or dangerous. Even though Daenerys didn’t believe it yet, Barristan knew Torrhen resembled her late brother far too much for it to be a coincidence. And his singing while playing his lute! Had he only had silver hair and switched the lute for a harp, the knight suspected he’d be the spitting image of Rhaegar as a child. Torrhen was directly related to the late prince in some way, he was sure of it. He had to get that boy to open up to him more and trust him enough to reveal his parents names. Once he knew that, he’d be able to convince the queen he was telling the truth.

But in the meantime, he had to help Torrhen however he could. He’d assumed teaching him to control his temper and training him to be a strong warrior was the best way to go about this, but this new development was a whole matter. The boy seemed aware of his problem, but he didn’t want to talk about it. Why? What was wrong with him?

Steeling his resolve, Barristan murmured a quick farewell to Grey Worm and headed to the archway. Her grace needed to be informed of everything that happened just now. Whatever was going with Torrhen, she should be aware of it. But before that, he had to catch up to his squire and give him one last task to carry out right now in accordance to his training. Even if he got annoyed about it, there was no excuse for him to not do this, as he could stay in his solar the entire time and not be bothered at all.

The boy needed to control his temper if there was to be any chance at all in him growing up to be a strong, honorable man someday. If scolding Torrhen and threatening to punish him weren’t cutting it, perhaps a different approach was required.

A far more relaxing, yet to Torrhen would be a rather _boring_ approach.

He’d just turned down the second hallway when he spotted the boy and his wolf approaching the stairs. “Torrhen, wait a moment.”

Torrhen paused, turning to sigh at him with great exaggeration. “Yes, Ser Barristan?” he mumbled.

“I have one more thing I would like you to do right now,” the knight smiled, trying not to chuckle. “It’s very important.”

“Ugh… seriously?” he groaned, slumping over. “Can’t I have just a little break?”

“Oh, this won’t be strenuous in the slightest. You can carry out in your chambers if you wish. You won’t even have to move at all.”

The boy blinked, immediately perking up. “Really? Okay, then. What is it?”

Barristan’s eyes twinkled. “I want you to practice a technique I learned from a sellsword in the Stepstones. The art of maintaining calmness and tranquility at all times.”


	14. No One Listens to Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for this long overdue update! This chapter took me FOREVER to finish, and I'm still not entirely satisfied with it. I never meant for it to run as long as it did, but I'm not sure how to trim it down anymore on my own. In addition to struggling to finish writing it, this chapter was also difficult for me to finish for the following matters. Reason #1 being that due to trying to change one of medications for my ADHD, a new med I was on for a few weeks made me reactively depressed for awhile and made it impossible for me to do anything creative, writing or artistic. It took awhile for that new med to leave my system which slowly restored my creative spark, but as soon as that was over, I was then distracted with trying to finish my online art portfolio to try applying for a job at Disney. My portfolio is still NOT finished and I didn't get that job, but they are indeed interested in seeing my portfolio for when I officially finish it later this week. Keep your fingers crossed for me, everyone! Working at Disney Animation Studios would be a dream come true for me!
> 
> I know you're all eager to read the new chapter, so I'll keep this next note brief. I'm aware from the various reviews left in my story that some of you are displeased by the 21st century vocabularly I occasionally use during the story. I'm well aware that this is a serious flaw, and when I self-edit my chapters before publishing them, I do my best to fix that. However, I admittedly miss a few here and there in a chapter. I plan to go back and edit EVERYTHING after I'm done writing this story, but for now, I'm not going to go back and change that stuff. Why? Because due to my daily schedule, it's already taking me forever to finish writing one chapter, let alone going back to edit things. If I distracted myself with tweaking previous chapters right now, it'd take me even longer to finish writing the next chapter. I'll fix this stuff eventually, just not now. That being said, I'll do my best to be better at not making anymore 21st dialogue flaws while continuing this story. No promises, though! I'll TRY to not include them, but mistakes happen, after all. Nobody's perfect.
> 
> Now onto the story stats. 543 kudos, 137 bookmarks, 18625 views, and 351 comments. Well, we didn't make the comment goal this time, but no biggie. I'm still pleased with the outcome, lol! :D
> 
> For this chapter's goal count... how about we strive for 370 this time? That's only 19 comments all together, not that many. I think you guys can do it! Just type in a nice little comment when you're done reading! It's not that hard at all, lol!
> 
> I think that sums up everything I needed to say this time around, so go ahead and enjoy the chapter!
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> \- Elphaba818

His quill flew across the page, every stroke carefully made to keep the ink from spreading. "Crescendoing whole note… tie it to… one more? No, two more… Aye, then quarter note, quarter note… and three eighth notes and a half note!"

Shadow nudged his knee with his nose, a small whimper escaping from the back of his throat.

"Not now, bud. Gotta finish this thought while I've got it. Can't let this idea go to waste!"

His wolf whined again, curling up to nestle into his side on the cool sheets.

"Two minutes, please! I'm almost done, I promise!"

Yipping in annoyance, Shadow twisted his neck to stare directly at the hand that had previously been holding the musical score sheet steady on the bed, then pointedly started licking it without reprieve.

Torrhen did his best to ignore the wolfish kisses and shoot his pal a scathing look, but he was so ticklish he couldn't force a scowl.

"H-Hey! Hey, stop — I mean it! St—" "No, s-stop! Please! Shadow, you're—" he cut himself off, laughing wholeheartedly as his friend wiggled his head under his arm to lick his neck and chin. "Come on, bud! That tickles!"

Reluctantly, Shadow backed away, cocking his head curiously.

Torrhen couldn't help but chuckle at his inquisitive look, and ruffled his furry head. "Thanks for listening this time. And for avoiding my mouth."

Shadow's tail swayed back and forth, delighted. He promptly tried moving closer again, but Torrhen shook his head and fended him off.

"No, boy. No more kisses. I've really gotta finish scribbling these music notes down before Ser Barristan comes in and checks on me."

The wolf panted, his ears drooping sadly. Licking his master's hand one last time, Shadow turned and hopped down off the bed before shuffling off miserably to cushioned area in the corner, his tail dragging lifelessly across the floor the entire time.

Torrhen sighed. "Come on, Shadow. It's nothing personal! I just can't afford to let this idea slip from my mind right now, and if I don't finish it now, then with my luck Ser Barristan will come in, see that I'm not doing that stupid meditation exercise he told me to do, and will make me do some other horrible chore!"

Shadow half-heartedly growled, finding a good-sized bone in his food dish courtesy of Missandei and taking it over to his cushiony area for a nice long chew.

Rolling his eyes, Torrhen shook his head and focused back on his unfinished music score. His future mother's song score was a tricky thing to compose. He had the basic melody done, and aside from maybe fine tuning it more later after he found a rhythm for how the harmonizing verses and the bridge would go, it'd be fine until he found Lyaella and could get her input regarding potential lyrics. Figuring out the verses rhythms were hard enough, but what made it all so much harder was... the melody was technically correct, but it still didn't _sound_ right.

It was hard to explain, what it was exactly that was wrong when his composing brain told him the notes themselves were right. It was like his instincts were contradicting each other over the same detail in making the song sound just right. If there was one thing he had in common with his sister when it came to writing music, it was that they should always trust their instincts on whatever they made, because nine times out of ten their first idea was often the best one. This time though? His inner self was at war with himself regarding what to do. The notes themselves weren't the problem. The melody itself was the perfect tune for Daenerys Targaryen. Yet somehow... they didn't come across that way when he tested them out loud on his lute. He didn't understand it. Never had he had such trouble with writing a piece before. What was he doing wrong this time?

Frustrated, he threw down his quill and flopped back in his seat with a loud huff. "Argh! Why the hell can't you be here, Lya? Knowing you, you'd see what I'm missing here in the first five seconds!"

His sister was who he depended on when he reached musical blocks like this, just like how she relied on him when she needed input on any problems she found when combining her lyrics to the melody. Sometimes it was a problem with the melody itself that needed to be tweaked to get the lyrics to work. Other times, a simple change in a rhyme or particular word he saw when critiquing her words could fix everything. They shared a brain when it came to music, both of them only understanding one half of music theory while letting their counterpart make up for the area they lacked in. What he wouldn't give to be able to show Lyaella this score just for a few minutes. She could tell him what the problem was.

Maybe he should take a break from his mother's song. Giving himself some time off from this weird problem was probably what he needed. Instead, he should focus more on Lyaella's song. Her song was just as important as the queen's was. Before he could start though, he needed to drum up some ideas for what to do in her song first.

Slumping over in annoyance, Torrhen sullenly left the desk and returned to his small bed, sitting down cross-legged in the center. Closing his eyes, he forced himself not to move and tried to focus his thoughts only on Lyaella's song. He'd realized earlier that it was next to impossible for him to fully empty his mind as Ser Barristan had told to when giving him this weird meditation exercise. Every time Torrhen tried, all he did was make his brain go haywire with a thousand thoughts all at once, and the more it happened, the more frustrated with himself he became. Perhaps this time it'd be be more beneficial to try thinking about one matter in particular. He didn't understand what the purpose was to this whole thing, but at the very least he needed to give this stupid meditating crap another decent chance in case Ser Barristan came in to check on him in the next five minutes.

"Lyaella's song… Lyaella's song…" he murmured, his fingers tapping the side of his thigh in tempo with the beat. Unlike their mother's song that began at a regular pitch with a swift tempo right away, Lyaella's started a bit slower. Not a lot slower than Daenerys', just a little, but it was much softer in the beginning. A steadily rising crescendo from soft, swift lute strings plucked to a faster beat at an even level. It was strange, but whenever he thought about Lyaella's tune, he thought about the wind and the Narrow Sea. An odd comparison considering neither of them had been on a ship since they'd been babies, but he couldn't help it. Maybe it was because he knew the only way he'd find Lyaella again was by crossing the Narrow Sea back to Westeros? Made sense, in a way. She was back in the North somewhere… assuming he wasn't going crazy and all the things he'd been seeing during his fire flickers lately were correct.

His visions… that reminded him! He never had the chance to absorb what he'd seen when his fire flicked out during training earlier. Yet it'd been so strange. Unlike his last vision when he only caught a passing glance of Lyaella, he saw several things this time. Similar to how he first saw stuff when Daario threw him out of the reception hall. But instead of those moments being fast, barely discernible flashes, they all seemed to… linger slightly as opposed to the past few instances. Especially that last vision. That last one had baffled him far more than anything else he'd seen.

The first one was interesting to say the least. He didn't know how his visions worked exactly, so he wasn't entirely certain about what happened, but he was fairly sure that he'd somehow slipped into the body of his future self in that instance considering he'd had no control over his body the entire time. He'd been somewhere up high he knew, and the wind had been slapping at his face. Below him had been Meereen, the city on fire and always moving. Torrhen was so shocked at the suddenness of this vision he'd missed whatever it was his future self said out loud. Had he any control over his body at all, he would have tried forcing himself to repeat it, but it all happened too fast. The next thing he knew, a sudden surge of weary acceptance filled his inner being. He wasn't sure what it was that made his future self feel that way, but one thing he did know was that emotion had popped up due two separate, confusing thoughts the future Torrhen had been thinking at that time — he'd been hopeful that something would work out for him… yet he'd been unsurprised when it hadn't. It was almost like that vision had been a warning from his future self: don't force himself to do something he knew he was not meant to do.

The second vision was far more familiar. He'd been back in the North with Lyaella again, but this was when they were far younger, before they'd both realized what monsters the Stark's were. It was actually a rather bittersweet memory, that day he saw. He and Lya had only been a few days short of their fifth nameday at the time, and they'd wandered away from Winterfell for the day to follow Ghost into the Wolfswood. Not that they made it very far before their relatives tracked them down and demanded to know where they were going, but what happened afterward… it was bittersweet. One of the few memories Torrhen could recall where they honestly believed the Stark's weren't as monstrous as he and Lyaella assumed they were. Childish naivety though, looking back on that moment, but still… it was nice to pretend every now and then that that they could go back and relive that day over and over again. After all, had it never been for that day, he never would've had Shadow… and without him, Sōnar would be gone too, just like—

He shook his head, forcing the thought away. No, don't think about that. He and Lyaella knew their rules about those particular horrible memories: Don't let their thoughts linger on them, but never forget them. If they constantly thought about them, they'd become as cruel as their relatives one day because they let their memories define who they grew up to become. Torrhen had made a pact with his sister after that awful time. They'd never stoop to the same level as the Stark's, no matter what life threw their way. They would be better than the damn wolves and make their parents proud, so constantly thinking about that time was out of the question. They couldn't let their grief and anger overwhelm them, but if they forgot about what happened and how devastated they'd been back then, they'd forget why they could never truly forgive their Stark relatives for what they'd done in the original timeline. They hated the Stark's, and they would continue to hate them. He and Lyaella were still far from having hated them enough. People like them didn't deserve forgiveness, not when the cruelty they'd subjected on their parents and themselves would always have a possibility of happening all over again.

In any event, the first two visions should only be passing thoughts right now. It was the last vision he needed to puzzle over.

That was the strangest one he'd had. He was obviously in the North, but Lyaella was nowhere to be seen and he didn't recognize the area or the people in the vision… Actually, scratch that. Technically he did see someone he vaguely recognized, but considering the last time he saw said person was during the flashing visions when stupid Daario threw out of the Great Pyramid, he wasn't entirely sure if it was the same boy at all. And more importantly, he hadn't just experienced this vision as a passing glance without being able to do anything this time. For some reason, he'd been fully conscious in this scene, but he'd been as invisible as a ghost to almost everyone he saw.

It was so bizarre. He'd been standing off on the sidelines in his own body, and aside from that one boy, the others were strangers to him. The boy had been his age maybe, give or take a year, and with a thick mop of light auburn curls. Aside from playing fetch in the frozen Northern grass with a stick and a direwolf as black as Shadow, he was chatting and laughing with another boy at least a year or so younger than he was in a warm green cloak trimmed with heavy fur. Whoever the second boy was, he'd obviously been nobleborn as there was a sigil of some sort etched into the silver fastening of his cloak, but the glint of chains in it made it a House sigil Torrhen didn't recognize. Either way, it was apparent that the woman who'd been watching them was a Wildling judging by her accent, but she and the boy in the green cloak were oblivious to his presence. Torrhen had tried approaching the woman to ask who she and the boys were and to see if they knew anything about why he was having a 'lucid' vision of them, but before he could the boy in the green cloak ran straight through his body to talk to the woman, neither of them realizing he was there at all.

Torrhen had been beyond alarmed and yelped in shock. Had he died and not realized it? Was he a ghost now? Why couldn't they see or feel him? Why was this vision so different from every other one he'd had during his fire flickers?

And then it happened.

" _Hello, where's your cloak? Aren't you cold?"_

Torrhen gulped, a shiver running down his spine. Those two simple questions bounced around in his head, in the same voice as the auburn-haired boy. He'd been so preoccupied by how the other boy ran through his invisible-body he wasn't entirely sure he'd hadn't imagined the questions. Either way, he jolted and whipped around... or at least he tried to. He'd barely managed to catch a glimpse of the curious look in the auburn-haired boys' eyes before he fire flickered back to reality, slipping over himself when he tried to swing his training sword against the practice dummy.

He almost wished his fire would flicker out again. If it did, maybe he could try seeing that weird vision again. If he did, Torrhen knew exactly what he'd do this time around — he'd ignore the boy in the green cloak and the Wildling woman and run straight to the boy with the direwolf. Whoever that boy was, if there was any chance that he really _had_ seen him there, then did he experience fire flickers, too? Could he see things? And what about that direwolf? That beast looked really similar to Shadow, but... he also seemed wilder than Shadow, his fur longer and more tangled. Where had that boy found a direwolf? As far as Torrhen knew, Shadow was probably one of the last direwolves left in the world, the only exceptions being Ghost and Lady Arya's wandering wolf Nymeria prowling the Riverlands.

Huffing irritably, Torrhen ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "Argh! If only Lya were here! It'd be so much easier to figure this out if I could talk to her about this!"

"Talk to her about what, Torrhen Snow?"

Torrhen yelped and spun around. His eyes bulged when he saw the graceful figure of the queen standing in the open archway entrance, hands folded neatly in front of her.

"Your grace!" he exclaimed, scrambling off the bed to bow. "Forgive me, I — I didn't hear you enter! I apologize!"

She smiled, eyes twinkling as she waved away the formality. "It's quite all right, I didn't announce my entry. There's no need to apologize."

"Well, if you say so, your grace. But I'm very happy to see you. Please, come in!"

She glided inside, smiling appreciatively as Torrhen hurried to pull out the side table chair for her. "Thank you. You certainly know how to be a proper gentleman, sometimes."

"Of course," he said, sitting back down on the bed with a wide smile. "I know how one's supposed to act to those above their own station in life. And you're the queen. You deserve my respect."

Daenerys nodded, but her smile soon became fixed and tight. "Yet does that not extend to the rest of my small council?"

There was a lengthy pause, but Torrhen didn't dare break it. He'd been waiting for ages to have a nice one-on-one conversation with his future mother. He did not want to spoil it right at the start by talking about what he knew she was alluding to.

"I thought you just said that I deserve your respect, Torrhen Snow? If so, I should tell you it's very rude to ignore a question when it's been asked."

Torrhen sighed, whistling for Shadow to join him. He waited until his direwolf had trotted over and nestled his head in his lap before focusing back on the queen. "I'm not trying to be rude, your grace. If anything, me not acknowledging that question is the exact opposite."

"I beg your pardon?"

He glanced down at his friend, unwilling to see her expression. "If there's one thing I learned today when squiring, if I have nothing nice to say, I shouldn't say anything. I'm already missing out on dinner tonight because of my temper. I'm not risking tomorrow's morning fast, too."

The queen arched a brow, pursing her lips. Not that Torrhen could tell since he was adamantly refusing to glance over, but for those that knew Daenerys Stormborn well, they would see that she was momentarily speechless by the retort. The boy technically had a point, after all.

"There's a difference between holding one's tongue to keep from saying something rude, and completely disregarding someone who's talking to you," she said finally. "It's very disrespectful, Torrhen."

He let out a humorless chuckle and gave her a dry look. "Seems like everything's disrespectful, your grace. Is nothing I do right?"

Daenerys frowned. "I didn't say that."

"No, but I know it's what everyone's thinking 'bout me," he countered. "Am I wrong?"

Truthfully, Torrhen wasn't trying to sound cheeky. If anything, he was glad they were finally talking. It was just... hard not being annoyed by her choice of topic. Couldn't Daenerys waited a little while before probing for information about his horrible first day of squiring duties? He'd been waiting his whole life for the chance to get to know his mother. Having her lecture him about his behavior and short temper wasn't exactly the way he'd dreamed of this first conversation to go.

Thankfully the queen seemed to take the hint, and looked away for a moment to collect herself. When she was finally ready, she maintained a carefully neutral facade as she focused back on him. "Let's just say that there's been plenty of men in my family tree that have succumbed to Targaryen madness. I don't wish to see the same happen to you if we really _are_ related. All right?"

She smiled politely, but Torrhen didn't reciprocate. He just stared at her for several moments before shaking his head in disgust. "Is that the only reason why you're here?" he muttered, hopping off the bed and signaling for Shadow to follow him as he stomped up to his desk. "Are you hoping for that?"

"What?"

He flopped down in the chair, reached for the page where he'd left off on Lyaella's song, and scanned it as he spoke. "You didn't believe me when I came here. That hurt, your grace, but when you explained why I understood. It still hurt, but I wasn't angry anymore. I figured you'd try to get to know me better when I was on bed rest. Every day I'd hoped you'd come, but other than when you escorted that healer here, you never did." Torrhen paused, dipping the quill into the ink pot and scribbling down a few conjoined eighth notes. "Tell me honestly, are you _hoping_ to find a reason to officially declare me mad so as to throw me out?"

She sucked in a sharp breath. "No, absolutely not!"

"Then forgive my language, my queen... but what the hell? You've had plenty of chances to come visit me before now, and you wait until I'm doing this boring meditation-thing Ser Barristan wants me to do because of my temper. So seriously, what the hell?"

Daenerys stayed silent for a few moments, the muscles in her cheeks growing very fixed. Clasping her hands on her lap, she tilted up her chin and swallowed. "I never meant to give you that impression, Torrhen Snow, and apologize if I have. I'm — I'm still not sure whether or not to believe your story, but my reasons have nothing to do with who you are as a person."

Torrhen kept his eyes fixed on the page, bouncing his hand in the air in time with the beat. Scowling as he realized the last two eighth notes he'd just added wouldn't work, he scratched them out. "Then let me guess, you're threatened by me?"

"Threatened by—? What?"

He glanced back over his shoulder. His future mother stared at him with wide eyes, blinking incredulously. Did she really not understand what he meant? He hotly huffed. "You're the last official Targaryen left in the world, and the only one who wants the Iron Throne," he stated. "Me and my sister? We're Snows, so we can't claim it... but we're Snows from House Targaryen. More importantly, you're an adult, but you're not a man. Me? I'm a boy." He paused, watching carefully as the implications of what he was saying slowly dawned on her. "If you think I'm here to try to take the throne from you or to make your people support me and Lya instead, you're dead wrong! Lyaella and I don't want that fucking chair! You insult us both by assuming that!"

"No!" She cried, shooting to her feet. "No, no, no! I — I never once thought that, Torrhen. If — If you think that's why I... I..." she sighed, words trailing off. When she at last mustered the strength to look up at him, she slowly crossed the room in purposeful strides. "I assure you I did not consider that in the slightest. If — If you're telling the truth and you and your sister really are part of my House, then words cannot express just how overjoyed I am to know I'm not alone anymore."

"Then what's the problem? I might not be as smart as Lyaella, but I can tell you don't wanna get to know me."

Daenerys stiffened, her eyes flicking down at her wringing hands. It was the first time Torrhen had ever seen his future mother look so uncomfortable. Ages passed before she sighed and looked up again. "It's… It's complicated, Torrhen, and a rather private matter. If I've led you to believe I'm not happy to host you here, I truly am sorry. I didn't mean for you to think that… but I will also not discuss this any further."

"Why? You can't expect me not to be insulted if you won't even explain why—"

She raised her hand, arching a brow. "I'm not obligated to tell you any more than that, regardless of whether or not you believe me."

That shut him up. He couldn't even retort that, not when he'd said the exact same thing during their first meeting when she and her small council had been prying too much into _that_ day so many years ago.

With a heated growl, he stubbornly looked back down at his unfinished music score and focused on the current measure. He wracked his brain, struggling to figure out what the next notes should be.

The queen blinked, peering over his shoulder. "What's that you're working on?"

"Just a song, I'm writing. Well, composing, anyway."

"You're a composer?" She selected a few dry pages off on the side, flipping through them with great interest. "You... You wrote all this yourself? Truly?"

Torrhen nodded, reaching for his quill without looking away from his current page. "Mm-hmm. Me and Lyaella love music, and especially songwriting. But please put those back exactly where you found them when you're done looking. I'm working on two separate songs right now and I don't want the pages getting mixed up."

He saw her absently nod out of the corner of his eye, her attention focused on the music sheets themselves. "What an unusual pastime! I never had the opportunity to learn any of the arts, though I wish I had."

"It's not like it's too late, Queen Daenerys," he shrugged, scribbling down a _C#._ "If you wanna learn, you should. I'm sure if you asked around, you could find someone in the city who could teach you any instrument you want."

She chuckled and shook her head. "No, no. I'm afraid I don't have time to learn music. Being queen is a full time job, especially with all the riots and rebuilding going on."

"Oh, right. Makes sense, I guess."

"I'll try to remember that though when I finally take the Iron Throne. It'd be nice to learn a relaxing skill once things settle down…"

Torrhen frowned. "With respect, your grace, if you want to learn, do it now. Don't wait."

She blinked, puzzled. "Beg your pardon?"

"I'm a Northerner, your grace, and House Stark is the leading House in the North," he said gruffly, the ink from his quill almost bleeding through the paper from how harshly he was pressing down. "I personally don't think much about the only well known survivor of House Stark, Lady Sansa, but their words are ones me and my sister abide by."

"Winter is Coming?"

"Aye, that's right."

"Well, what do they matter? The Starks were House Targaryen's enemy during the rebellion. If they've been wiped out, that's good news."

The fluttering of his quill feather stilled. "Come again?"

"They were my — well, possibly _our_ family's enemy, Torrhen. If they're gone, that's one less—"

"No, I mean you think they're all _gone?_ _"_

The queen was muddled. "You said so yourself. Whoever this Lady Sansa is, she's the only Stark left."

"I said Sansa Stark is the only _well known_ member of House Stark left," he retorted, spinning around in his seat. "I never said she was the only one."

"Is there a difference?"

Torrhen didn't answer. He just stared at her, eyes bulging before shaking his head. "Incredible. Just incredible…"

"What?" she asked, eyes narrowing. "Do you have something you wish to say?"

"Oh, there's plenty I wish to say, my queen."

She frowned, lips pressed tight. "And…?"

"And you don't want to hear any of it, believe me." He paused, tapping his fingers in tempo with the notes he just added in. Nodding in satisfaction, he drew in the next blank row of the music score. "You'll think I'm being cheeky and will probably add onto Ser Barristan's punishment."

He stared at the score and tried to think how to start the next measure, but a long shadow suddenly fell over the page. Daenerys' shadow.

"You may speak your mind. I won't punish you for your opinion."

Torrhen blew a loose curl out of his eyes and looked up. "It's just… you plan to take the Iron Throne, right?"

"Of course. It was stolen from House Targaryen. I have every right to stake my claim for it, being the rightful heir."

"Yet you don't know much about what's currently happening in Westeros? You aren't keeping track of the current political matters, or paying attention to the War of the Five King's?"

Silence spread between them for the longest time, Daenerys looking quite conflicted as she bit her lip. Torrhen was rather pleased to see her looking so pensive. It was important for her to educate herself on these things if she was to win the game of thrones this time around. Perhaps dropping little ideas like that was the best way to approach her on fixing her mistakes regarding Meereen, too.

Sadly, Daenerys didn't press the subject. She merely quirked her head as she regarded him before brushing the matter aside. She flipped through more of the music sheets, perusing them carefully. "How does this one go?" she asked, fishing out the first page in the pile. "The tune, I mean, and where are the lyrics? Did you write them down separately?"

Torrhen glanced over vaguely, but then jerked when he noticed which music sheets in particular she was looking over.

"No! Not those!" He cried, eyes bulging in panic as he leapt up, snatching them away. "You… You can't! Not those ones!"

Daenerys jolted, lips parting as he scrambled to gather those pages and a handful of others on the desk before dashing across the room to dump them on the bedside table. It wasn't until he stiffly walked back over that she found her voice. "I… I'm sorry? I don't understand…"

His whole face was on fire. Was this how Lyaella felt all the time whenever she was embarrassed? Seven hells, how did she live?! He was only enduring this for a few seconds out of panic that his mother had seen her unfinished song, and he already felt like jumping out the window out of humiliation that she'd seen the mess it was right now. Wiping away the thin sheens of sweat covering his palms, Torrhen bent his head, unable to look her in the eye. "That… That song's personal, all right?"

"Personal? How so? I mean, you told me I could—"

"I meant you could look over these pages here!" He snapped, his flush spreading all the way down his neck as he waved his hand at the sheets of Lyaella's song. Seizing one at random, he thrust it into Daenerys' chest and speed walked out onto the balcony. Shadow trotted along at his heels, but he was only vaguely aware of his friend. Going straight to the railing, he slumped down to rest his elbows and gazed sullenly at the ocean. The queen was free to admire his song for his sister as much as she wanted, but she couldn't see her own song. Not yet. Not when it was still as rough and awful as it was. Only when it was a bit more polished could she be allowed to see it.

"Torrhen?" She called, following him out. "Are you all right?"

He ignored her and kept staring at the sea. He'd joked with Lyaella that he'd cross the Narrow Sea to get back to her if they were ever separated, but he never thought they ever would be. His sister was out there somewhere, possibly all alone aside from Sōnar. Was she all right? Was he doing the right thing by staying in Meereen with their mother? Should he be encouraging her to abandon Meereen and sail for Westeros immediately to find her? Should he leave instead? Why was he here? What was he supposed to do?

She joined him at the railing, standing on Shadow's free side. From the corner of his eye, he saw her smile before gazing out happily at the breathtaking view. "I've always loved the view up here on the balconies. I can see everything from up here, especially in the city."

He curtly nodded but stayed silent. He had no idea where she was going with this.

"I care about Meereen, of course. I will not rest until every man, woman, and child in Slaver's Bay is free from the shackles of slavery forever. It's very important to me… but you want to know what I love the most about this view?"

He turned to look at her inquisitively.

She beamed. "It's the sea. For as long as I can remember, I've always dreamed of the day when I would finally cross the Narrow Sea and return to Westeros. I have no memory whatsoever of our homeland, Torrhen, but I've dreamed of that day. So, if it's hard for me being here in Essos as the very last Targaryen, I cannot begin to imagine how hard it must be for you. You left Westeros just to meet me. You left whatever family you have just to come here. You left your home. But that—"

He held up a hand, shaking his head. "I didn't leave my _family_ or _home_ , your grace," he said, sounding quite harsh. "Don't think for a moment I'd do something like that."

She tilted her head, puzzled. "What? But — But you said before—"

"Me and Lya got separated from each other, that's not the same as leaving. And we left our relatives, _not_ our family," he explained. "Our aunts and uncle? We share blood with them, but they are _not_ our family. As far as family goes, we have each other. We have Sōnar and Shadow. Our—" he paused, bowing his head as he thickly swallowed. It was hard finding the right words to explain this without giving too much away. "Our father's tomb… we like to visit it whenever we want to talk to him or our mother. She's not… not buried with him, but we wrote her name on his statue in a hidden area. Father's tomb in the crypts… that's the only place me and Lya consider to be like home, but that's it. Where we grew up? Our solar? The weirwood in the godswood?" He shook his head, disgusted. "It's just a place we once lived. It is _not_ our home."

Silence reigned. The queen stared in disbelief. Torrhen couldn't bear to see her pitying gaze. Cheeks flaming red, he hotly huffed and kept his eyes on the ocean. Shadow whined, nudging up against his legs, but Torrhen only absently scratched him. Better to look at the sea rather than at his pal and risk seeing her sad eyes.

Then, quite unexpectedly, soft fingers tucked under his chin and guided his head around to see a gentle smile on the queen's face. Torrhen blinked as his future mother cupped his cheek with her hand.

"I suppose we have something in common, Torrhen," she said. "I've spent all my life here in Essos, yet I do not see this land as my home. To everyone on this side of the sea, I am just foreigner who doesn't belong anywhere. But you are luckier than me in one regard."

"Luckier? How? Because I still grew up in Westeros?"

"No — Well, yes. Yes, of course, Torrhen. If you and your sister truly are of Targaryen descent, then you're indeed lucky to have grown up on the right continent, not on the streets like I did."

"What? You — You were on—?"

"Another story for another time. That's not even what I referring to. I meant, you're luckier than I was to have someone you love as family, and for them to love you in return."

Torrhen blinked, surprised. "Wait… do you mean Lyaella?"

She nodded. "Of course. Having a sibling that loves you is wonderful. To know that you love your sister and she loves you in return… I'll admit, I'm envious."

"You… You envy me? That's—"

"Hard to believe? I'm sure it must be from your perspective, but it's true, Torrhen. You might be alone right now being separated from your sister, bu you still have a family. I on the other hand am alone as I'm the last Targaryen. I have no one."

"That's not true!" Torrhen snapped, folding his arms. "I'm here, aren't I? I'm family. You're not alone so long as I'm around."

Daenerys laughed. "Well, I suppose so… but that depends on if your telling the truth about that."

"I am!"

"How am I to know that? I can see you were at least telling the truth about having violet eyes, but for all I know, you might be sired from one of the other few Houses in Westeros with the blood of Old Valyrian. House Velaryon, for example."

"They're from the Driftmark. That's in the Crownlands."

"My point, Torrhen, is that aside from your eyes you look like a perfect Northerner while your sister looks like a Targaryen. Assuming for a moment you really are telling the truth, how am I to know? How have the two of you kept up with your Targaryen heritage in a way you can prove to me if your relatives tried to suppress it?"

Torrhen frowned. That was a fair question, but he couldn't answer it. Not just because it would give away too many details about the future, but the full truth brought up so many bad memories. Memories he'd never forget because of his Northern heritage, but one's he and Lya didn't talk about. How many times did he have to play Truth or Half-Truth to keep from explaining _that_ day in excruciating detail?

"I can't really prove that, your grace, but don't take that as an excuse," he grumbled, scuffing the ground with his heel. "Were it up to me and Lyaella, we'd be more in touch with our Targaryen side. At the very least, we'd be fluent in High Valyrian and would know more than just _s_ _ōnar, dracarys,_ and—" he paused, swallowing a lump as his chest grew tight. His eyes burned at what he'd almost said, the third High Valyrian word that neither he nor Lyaella ever dared to utter. It hurt, remembering it. Remembering what he almost had. Lyaella too, in a way. She lost something, too. If it weren't for their fucking Stark relatives—!

A hand suddenly fell upon his shoulder. "Is everything all right?"

Sucking in a breath, Torrhen nodded, pushing away the painful thoughts. Now wasn't the time to be thinking about that. "Aye, I'm fine, your grace. Anyway, we'd know our Targaryen family history by heart, if we could. But it's not our fault! Our relatives… they wouldn't let us. They forbade the only person we know of who somewhat knows High Valyrian to teach us how to speak it, so aside from asking him about those three words, we don't know the language. Aside from giving us bare minimal history lessons, we don't even know that much about Targaryen history 'cause they threw all those history books into the fire. And you know why?"

"…Why?"

"'Cause they caught me and Lya play-acting a Targaryen war with Sōnar and Shadow when we were little. We weren't actually trying to start a real war or hurt anyone! We were _playing!_ But it didn't matter. The minute they saw that, they ordered all the history books to be burned to a crisp. Lya and I only managed to smuggle out one, and we only look at it when we know we won't be bothered by anyone for hours at a time. We want to know more about Targaryen roots, we just weren't allowed to. It's not our fault."

Daenerys stared at him as she sadly sighed. "No, it wasn't," she agreed. "I'll have to speak to Ser Barristan and Missandei about this later, I suppose."

"Your grace?"

"I'm not saying I do or don't believe you're story yet, Torrhen, but if you're going to be staying in Essos, it's important you learn High Valyrian. Almost everyone in Meereen knows Valyrian, so you must be able to speak and read the language. I'll explain to Ser Barristan the importance of this so he won't keep you working late on your squire duties so Missandei can have time to teach you."

"Oh, all right. But can't you teach me, your grace? You know High Valyrian, too. I saw you that day of the execution."

"Again, I have to devote my time to getting Meereen back on its feet. Perhaps when things settle down I can assist Missandei in teaching you, but for now I must have you learn solely from her."

"Okay."

"Getting back to the topic at hand, what about this dragon you keep mentioning? The one you claim is your sister's companion?"

"Sōnar? What about her?"

"You wish to prove to me that you're telling the truth about us being related, yes? Well, as the Mother of Dragons, I consider myself well versed in dragon knowledge. What can you tell me about your sister's dragon?"

Torrhen fell silent, rubbing his chin as he thought about Sōnar. "I'm not really sure what you want me to say, Queen Daenerys. Like you said, you're the Dragon Queen. You'd know more about this than me and Lya would."

Daenerys frowned. "Are you saying you can't tell me any specific details about Sōnar? If you can't, I'll be inclined to believe this dragon doesn't really exist."

"No, I just don't know what you want me to tell you that you wouldn't already know. I don't know if Sōnar is similar or different from your dragons, so whatever I say may or may not be believable. I honestly don't know."

She softened. "Ah, I see. Well, how about this? You tell me whatever you can think of regarding Sōnar as we head downstairs, and then you judge for yourself if she's similar or different?"

Torrhen jolted. "Your grace?"

"I would like to introduce you to my sons. Would you like to meet my dragons, Torrhen Snow?"

* * *

It was strange, how nervous she was. Dany thought she'd been at the peak of her uneasiness when she first arrived at her young guest's chamber. Now she knew she'd only been slightly on edge, nowhere near as anxious as she felt whilst leading Torrhen outside to the entrance of the catacombs, a select number of Unsullied escorting them.

It seemed so simple when she proposed this idea to Missandei. She needed to know for sure if Torrhen was related to her, but because he was so hesitant to reveal certain details about his past, his story had so many holes in it and seemed unbelievable. Yet somehow he indeed had violet eyes like her own, the sister he spoke of had silver hair and had a dragon that was not one of her sons, and while she had never known her brother Rhaegar, Ser Barristan claimed that Torrhen shared a remarkable resemblance to him aside from his dark Northern coloring. It made it all so complicated to know if he was telling the truth. Hence the necessity in introducing Torrhen to her children now that he was healed. Drogon might still be missing and was the one she shared the deepest bond with out of all her sons, but Viserion and Rhaegal were still very important to her.

Dragons were highly intelligent creatures, far wiser than the common man. If Torrhen was telling the truth about being of Targaryen descent and that he and his sister hatched their own dragon, the best way to test that was having him interact with her dragons. If he was lying, her sons would become hostile and wouldn't allow him to approach. If he was telling the truth, they'd sense the Valyrian magic flowing through his veins and would be open and gentle towards him. Not even Ser Jorah had been able to pet her sons since they'd grown larger than dogs, and he'd been there when they were born.

Still, Dany couldn't help the pangs of guilt eating away at her with every step she made. It was one thing to act sneaky like when she deceived the slavers in Astapor. It was another to act this way when her target was only a child. Doing this was necessary… but was it right?

Torrhen was oblivious to her thoughts and happily followed with a spring in his step. "What are your dragons like, Queen Daenerys?" he asked. "I know you've got three, but one's not in the city right now, right? I saw that big black one fly off a while back. Do you know where that one is? Do your other two dragons miss him?"

"The black one is Drogon, Torrhen," she replied, forcing a tight smile. "Out of all three of my sons, he's always been the one I've had the deepest connection with."

"Like a bond?"

"Yes, precisely. How did you—?"

He grinned, bouncing up and down. "Again, Lyaella has Sōnar, and I have Shadow. We have bonds with them stronger than any other in the world. Right, bud?"

His wolf yipped in confirmation, trotting faster to be at his boys' side.

Torrhen chuckled, fingers fisting through his black fur. "Right, good boy."

"I'm sure you and your… wolf companion here have a unique friendship, Torrhen," she added, her eyes drifting over to the boy's ever-present shadow much like its own namesake. "I admit I do not know much of anything about animals from the North, but I do not believe you fully understand just what a _true_ bond is."

Torrhen's eyes immediately snapped back to her. _"Direwolf,_ your grace, and pardon me?"

Dany frowned. The slight edge to his words was unmistakable, and upon hearing her own words out loud, she couldn't even blame him for his anger. "I — Forgive me, Torrhen. That came out wrong."

"Hmph," he grumbled, lingering back two steps out of sync from her as they continued along. "That was incredibly insulting, Queen Daenerys. To both me _and_ Shadow." The direwolf's blood red eyes quickly focused on her, and a low growl escaped from its jaws as they kept walking, its whole body sunken low to the ground and pointed ears pulled back in warning.

It took everything Dany had to ignore the shiver that crept down her spine, and she was secretly grateful her soldiers made sure to walk a bit closer to them while gripping their spears tighter. "I meant no disrespect, but I must rectify by explaining what I did mean. I'm not saying you and your wolf don't—"

" _Direwolf,_ your grace."

"Sorry — _direwolf_ don't share a special connection with each other. It's clear you two are very close, as you're quick to remind me about his feelings and he never seems to leave your side."

"Aye, he's not a pet, your grace. Shadow's my direwolf brother just as much as Lyaella's my sister, and she thinks of him that way, too! That goes double for Sōnar being like our sister. And they think the same way as us."

"How… How do you know that?" she asked. "I mean… what makes you so sure they think that?"

"What makes _you_ so sure your dragons look at you as their mother?" He challenged, folding his arms. She swallowed, unable to answer. "It's because you have a bond with them, your grace, and a _real_ bond isn't something you can just describe out loud. You just… know. It's as simple as that."

She looked at him for a long moment, then bowed her head in acquiesce. "You make a good point. I apologize."

"Thank you. Shadow?"

The beast relaxed and trotted forward, falling into step beside her. Dany couldn't help but tense as the wolf attempted to sidle its head under her arm, and she quickly clasped her hands together. "Um…?"

The boy grinned. "Don't worry, Shadow forgives you. He's just acting spoiled."

"Spoiled?"

"Aye, he's shameless when it comes to wanting attention. Especially if he likes you, which he does. He wants you to scratch him behind the ears and pet him."

"Ah," she murmured, still rather on edge as the wolf kept trying to nuzzle up against her side. "I… I see…"

Silence fell between them again. The queen let out a sigh of relief that aside from the wolf's nudges that was the end of it, but then she noticed Torrhen looking at her expectantly.

"Well, what're you waiting for, Queen Daenerys? Go ahead."

"Go ahead—? Go ahead with what?"

"Pet him."

"Oh! Of course, how silly of me! Don't know why I didn't think of that myself."

Torrhen chuckled, so Dany forced herself to let out a half laugh, too. She had to, because truth be told, she hadn't intended to have her hands anywhere near those sharp fangs. Torrhen's unusual friend was quite tame and as far as she knew had never attacked anyone in Meereen other than during the Harpy riot. Even so… one wrong move and she'd lose a hand with one quick, well placed bite before the Unsullied could react.

Still, she couldn't exactly be rude and turn this down, not when Torrhen looked so excited and the wolf was continuously pressing up against her. Flashing a tight smile, Dany rigidly moved her arm back to her side, forcing her fingers into the thick black fur covering Shadow's back. He couldn't easily take a nip at her back here.

But that wasn't good enough for Shadow's liking. Whining impatiently, he wedged himself against her until her hand was at the back of his neck.

She immediately wrenched her hand back, stunned. "Shameless, isn't he?"

Torrhen laughed. "Aye, he is, your grace. Expect this to happen a lot. Just promise me if he starts licking your face, push him away and yell at him if he licks you on the lips. That's a bad habit and I'm gonna make him break it. Hear that, bud?" he called, half annoyed and half chuckling as he glanced at his wolf. "You're not sticking your tongue in my mouth any more! I've had enough of your direwolf drool, and I'm sure the queen won't want you kissing her mouth, either! It stops now! Right now!"

Shadow merely yipped at him, tail wagging back and forth with his tongue lolling out.

"Ugh! Don't give me that look! I'm _not_ joking!"

Yip yip. Wag wag wag.

"I'm serious, Shadow! Next time you stick your tongue in my mouth, I'll… I'll—!"

"You'll what, Prince Snow? Normally a man would never say no to someone tonguing their mouth."

They both looked up. They'd been so busy chatting, they hadn't even noticed they'd arrived at the catacombs entrance, nor had they seen the two who'd been waiting for their arrival with a select number of other Unsullied and the Second Son's guards.

"Ser Barristan, Captain Naharis," Dany greeted, nodding politely. "Thank you for joining us."

"Of course, your grace," said Ser Barristan, bowing respectfully. "It's no trouble at all. I see you brought my squire with you. I do hope he wasn't disrespectful towards you."

"No, not at all. A little… _ill-mannered,_ perhaps, but not intentionally, I assure you. It's just a bad habit he must break."

"Very well. Though I do hope you at least practiced though meditation exercises I taught you, Torrhen."

Torrhen sheepishly shrugged. "I tried, ser, really! But to be honest, I don't think I did them right. I couldn't feel that calmness you told me I'd feel. I felt really stupid doing it…"

"Well, as long as you tried, that's fine, for now. Daily practice will help."

"Sure, sure," Daario grinned, a wicked smirk playing on his lips as his gaze shifted from Torrhen to her. "Though I must point out that without proper motivation, practice isn't always fun. Perhaps you require a partner for more… _private_ lessons tonight?"

The glint in Daario's eyes was as wild and promising as ever, but unlike before, Dany felt no desire setting her aflame. If anything, her lip curled in disgust at how he cockily waggled his brow, not caring in the slightest that Torrhen was standing here with them. The poor boy scratched the back of his head, confused by the innuendo, but understanding enough to realize he was being mocked.

"I feel like I should be insulted, though I don't know why," he muttered, folding his arms and glancing up uncertainly at his mentor. "Is it honorable for knights to draw their swords and demand to know from someone who's being rude to them to better explain themselves when they don't understand an insult, Ser Barristan?"

"No, Torrhen, it's not," the knight replied, clapping a hand on the boy's shoulder, his heated glare staying fixed on Daario. "Though in this case, I must say that it's a shame for that."

"Huh?"

"Nothing," he murmured, eyes flicking to her when he saw her discrete head tilt. Thank goodness the knight knew her so well, for he quickly steered Torrhen towards the catacombs. "Why don't you tell me more about your meditation attempts? I can give you some pointers on how to approach it better."

Daario snorted. "Off to give him a lecture on the ways of the world? Take some advice from me, Little Prince — forget about honor. You'll miss out on the greatest pleasures in life if you're honorable and wait for marriage!"

"Marriage? I'm nine! Why in seven hells would I—?!"

"Ask your liege knight. He'll tell you why he's never known such pleasure due to his honor and vows."

" _Captain Naharis,"_ Dany hissed, stepping right into the sellsword's line of sight. "A word. _Now._ _"_

Daario blinked but nodded, his hungry gaze swiftly returning as his eyes swept across her figure. "Of course, my queen. Whatever you say."

Leading Daario a short ways off, Dany waited until they were safely in the shade of another building before rounding on him. "What was that?"

He cocked his head, puzzled. "What was what?"

" _That._ Back there," she said, violet eyes narrowing into thin slits. "Explain yourself, Captain Naharis."

Daario snickered. "Oh, don't tell me you didn't find that amusing. He didn't—"

"Amusing?" He stiffened, jaw snapping shut. Anyone would have had they heard her. "You call deliberately taunting a child about adult relationships when he is obviously still innocent about such things _amusing?!_ _"_

He thickly swallowed, his whole throat bobbing as he realized just how angry she was. "I-It's just innocent teasing, Daenerys. I—"

"You speak far too informally, Captain. You shall address me as 'your grace,' 'my queen,' or _Queen_ Daenerys from now on, in both public and private. Understood?"

Daario flinched, eyes bulging. "What…? But—"

"Understood?"

He forced a stiff nod. "Understood, your grace," he sighed.

"Good. Consider this a warning, Captain Naharis. You are to stop behaving so presumptuously towards me in public. It is bad form to be boasting about our relationship in front of others in the small council. More importantly, you are to stop antagonizing that boy the way you have. Ser Barristan is trying to temper his anger problems, and your teasing remarks do not help."

Daario scoffed and rolled his eyes. "What does that matter? He's just another street rat, Daen— _Queen_ Daenerys. He's just conning us to live here in the pyramid and to maybe be named a prince one day. He's gonna slip up with his story soon enough, so why should my teasing matter?"

"First of all, we don't know for certain yet if Torrhen is lying. Until I see undeniable proof that he is or isn't who he claims he is, I am keeping an open mind. That is the whole reason behind why I had you and Ser Barristan meet us here."

"What? But why—?"

" _Secondly,_ if the in event that Torrhen is telling the truth, it is very important that he learns to keep his temper in check. I will _not_ have that boy turn out like my idiot brother, Viserys. He could very well be the only living male descendant of House Targaryen in the world, and I will not have my family's name be besmirched simply because no one ever taught Torrhen manners. Perhaps once he's learned basic control over his emotions he could benefit from occasional provokes to learn to brush them aside, but until then you are to stop deliberately infuriating him. Is that clear?"

He sighed. "Whatever you say, your grace," he grumbled.

"Good. You'd do well to remember that from now on." And without another word, Dany spun around and marched back to where Ser Barristan and Torrhen were standing by the rest of the guards, leaving Daario no choice but to follow. They both turned when they saw her approach.

"I take it everything is well, your grace?"

"Yes, Ser Barristan. No need to worry."

"Can we go see your dragons now, Queen Daenerys? Please?"

"Certainly, Torrhen. Follow me, please."

Signaling for two Unsullied to roll aside the enormous boulder concealing the entrance, Dany waited for a few of the Second Son's to light and pass out torches to both her and a few other soldiers before finally leading the way into the catacombs. Everyone was silent as the party descended down the steps, their footsteps echoing in the darkness. Truth be told, Dany's heart was pounding with every step. The last time she visited her children they'd nearly attacked her, enraged that she'd locked them away. Hopefully they'd be calmer now and understand why she'd had to do that.

As soon as they reached the bottom level, the soldiers dispersed to light the numerous torches while Ser Barristan and Daario kept their eyes trained into the darkness. Her dragons were her children, but Dany knew no one else thought of them that way. To the Lord Commander of her Queensguard and possibly soon-to-be ex-lover depending on Daario's attitude, the dragons were still wild beasts, capable of killing her and everyone else in the cavern with just one fiery breath. Still, she paid their wariness no mind and instead signaled Torrhen to stay close.

"Stay right behind me, and don't say anything. Let me speak to them first," she whispered.

The boy furrowed in brows in obvious confusion, but slowly nodded. Smiling softly, Dany patted his shoulder and turned to the vast darkness looming ahead. With a deep breath, she ventured forward.

"Viserion?" She called, her voice echoing clearly. "Rhaegal?"

Silence rang out in return, no one daring to even breathe loudly to break it.

"My sweetlings, I'm here. I'm so sorry I haven't visited in so long, but I'm here. Please, come out so I can see you both. I even brought someone I think you'll be interested in meeting."

All was quiet in the dark chamber, so much so some of the Second Son's turned to one another and exchanged hushed whispers. Big mistake on their part, because it was at that moment two distinct, ear-piercing screeches erupted from the shadows.

Everyone else jumped, but not the queen. No, a delighted smile spread across her face as the sound of heavy footfalls emanated from within.

Out of the darkness came two, elephant-sized shapes with long necks and folded up leathery wings. Reptilian creatures, with emerald green scales covering one and whiteish gold scales splattered across the other. Occasional hisses and growls escaped their mouths as they prowled closer, but unlike everyone else there who unconsciously shuddered and took several fearful steps back, Dany wasn't the slightest bit afraid. No, if anything her smile became twice as bright and happy as she passed Torrhen the torch.

"Viserion," she cooed, stepping forward to rest her forehead against her sons' snout. "I'm so happy to see you again. Have you been kind to your brother since I saw you last?" Her youngest son warbled, nuzzling her cheek. Patting his neck, she turned and stroked Rhaegal's scales. "And what about you? Have you missed your mother, Rhaegal?" A small puff of smoke erupted as he snorted, and moments later he was butting his snout affectionately against her shoulder. "I'll take that as a yes," she laughed.

Her sons crooned as they basked in her affection, and for a brief moment Dany closed her eyes and let her troubles slip away as she pampered them with all her love. Oh, how she'd missed her children. Drogon was still missing, and for the life of her Dany didn't understand what had possessed him to leave her and his brothers the way he had, but she still had Viserion and Rhaegal. It'd been sadly necessary for them to be locked away down here after what Drogon had done to that little girl, but from now on she'd have to make more of an effort to come see them. She could tell by how they sniffed her hair and happily trilled with every quick kiss that her sons had been so lonely without her or their brother. Yes, from now on she'd have to come see them more often.

A shuffle of footsteps made her turn. Torrhen didn't try to hide his shock, and he stared at her sons with eyes like saucers and mouth agape. "They're… They're…"

The queen couldn't help but smile. "They're dragons. My sons," she laughed. "Didn't you claim to have one with your sister?"

He dumbly shook his head. "No — I-I-I mean, aye. Aye, we do, b-but— but that's not what I mean!"

"Oh?"

"T-They're… They're _enormous!_ _"_

Another stream of merry laughter escaped her. Even on the sidelines, the guards had to hold back their chuckles. It was impossible not to laugh at the flabbergasted look on Torrhen's face. "They're bigger than your dragon?"

He nodded, eyes still locked on her children. "Aye… S-Sōnar's… Sōnar's the size of a horse, right now. Your dragons… they're gigantic compared to her!"

She lightly laughed at his bewilderment, then turned back to her dragons. "Viserion, Rhaegal, I have an important request to make of you both."

Her sons quickly stopped crooning and turned to give her their full and undivided attention.

She pressed her nose deep into the crook of Viserion's neck, hugging him with one arm while idly stroking Rhaegal's snout with her other. "See that boy right there? I only met him recently. Do you know what he claimed to be when we first met?"

Rhaegal's eyes shifted curiously over to Torrhen before focusing back on her, while Viserion warbled in gentle confusion while pulling away to look her in the eye.

" _Vestas ziry tolī ēza se ānogar hen zaldrīzes._ He said he too has the blood of the dragon. He said he and his sister are of House Targaryen and have a dragon of their own. _Vestas ziry se z_ _ȳhon mandia issi hen Targārien Lentor se emagon iā zaldrīzes hen pōja own."_

Her sons squawked, hooting and flapping their wings. Those watching on the sidelines tensed, but not Dany. She knew her sons, and they were only surprised by this news, not angry or defensive. And out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Torrhen didn't appear to be scared either. Puzzled maybe as to why they were suddenly on edge, but he wasn't afraid. Very interesting…

Shaking away the thought, she focused back on her sons. "I have to know if he's telling the truth. Would you both be willing to meet him, my sweetlings? You can both sense the blood of the dragon in me, yes? You'll know if there's any Old Valyrian magic in him too, right?"

They hooted and cooed in confirmation.

"Good. Then let him approach… but do _not_ harm him if you sense nothing," she added, her tone sharp. "Understood?"

Her sons were perplexed by that last command, but bobbed their heads against he in acquiescence. Dragons they might be, but she was still their mother. They knew she was serious when she used that tone.

Planting one last kiss on each of their snouts, Dany walked back over to the young boy. "Are you afraid of my sons, Torrhen Snow?"

"Uh-uh," he said, shaking his head. "They're… They're just so big! I can't imagine how much bigger they can get, and the idea that Sōnar will become as big as they are now? It's hard to imagine, that's all… And I'm glad Shadow stayed up top. Dunno how he'd have reacted if he saw how big they are."

She smiled. "Perhaps next time you can bring your wolf down here and introduce them to your friend. In the meantime, would you like to get closer?"

His eyes boggled even wider. "Can I?"

"Of course. It's the whole reason we came here in the first place. Go right ahead, Torrhen."

The boy thickly swallowed before focusing back on her sons. He was clearly nervous as it took him a long time to step forward, but he didn't dare look back despite his slow pace.

"H-Hello, there," he murmured, shaking a bit in his boots. "I'm… I'm Torrhen."

Rhaegal snorted, gold eyes peering intensely at the boy while Viserion growled, white fangs flashing as he lowered his head down to Torrhen's level. Out of the corner of her eye, Dany saw Ser Barristan grow tense. She couldn't blame him. She herself was on edge upon seeing Viserion bare his teeth at Torrhen. She stepped forward—

"Your names—" she froze "—they're Rhaegal and Viserion, right?"

Rhaegal squawked, more curious than ever. Viserion hooted, still suspicious, but no longer baring his fangs.

Torrhen's stance relaxed somewhat, but he still kept a reasonable distance between himself and the dragons. Dany wasn't sure what to make of that. While her sons were much bigger than he claimed his and his sister's dragon was, she still figured he would have tried to get at least a little closer. "I thought so. It's… It's nice to meet you both. Shame your other brother isn't here, though. I'd've liked to meet Drogon, too."

Silence filled the tomb. Rhaegal inched closer, sniffing the air curiously, but Viserion stayed right where he was, his eyes following Torrhen's every move.

"Me and my sister, Lyaella," he went on, taking another step forward. "We've always wanted to meet you both, and Sōnar would be overjoyed to see you, too. She's our dragon."

Twin derisive snorts answered him.

Torrhen frowned. "You don't believe me?" Silence. "It's the truth. I can tell you all about the day we got her egg. I'll never forget that day."

Dany blinked, standing slightly straighter. That information was definitely worth paying attention to. Even if he didn't try to get any closer to her sons today, this story could at least prove whether or not he and his sister truly had a dragon. Not counting Ser Jorah considering his exile, she was the only one amongst her allies who had seen her children while they were still eggs. Torrhen's tale could make or break his claim of being related to House Targaryen.

"We were five," he said, shuffling forward a few steps. "It was our nameday, actually. Lya and me? We hate our nameday."

Her lips parted, and she spared a glance over at the others. Ser Barristan frowned, and even Daario looked confused. They were just as puzzled as she was by that statement.

"Nameday's are supposed to be fun for children. A day all about you, eating sweets and getting gifts and feeling… well, loved. Lya and I never had that." He paused, kicking a pebble near his foot. "Our aunts and uncle? They took that day for themselves, to make themselves look even better in front of everyone. Every year there's this… big event that happens, and they _always_ schedule it on our nameday. It doesn't actually have to happen on that day specifically, they just choose to do it that day. They don't care their selfishness hurts us, they do it anyway."

Viserion cocked his head, intrigued. Then he too joined his green-scaled brother in inching forward slightly.

"I can count on one hand the number of nameday gifts we've ever gotten. But our fifth nameday? That was the best one. We got Sōnar's egg, and… and… and gah!"

He suddenly sniffled, hands balling into fists. Dany was caught off guard by the unexpected shift in emotion, but before she could recover Torrhen mumbled something under his breath. If was too low for her to catch, but she didn't have time to ponder over it because he was already continuing.

"—and Shadow a few days earlier, but we still consider him a present from our father since it was so close to our nameday anyway. He was so cute as a pup…" More intelligible mumbling, muffled by how he scuffed at the ground with his heels. Chancing another peek behind her, the queen could tell no one could make out what he'd said, but her dragons evidently could. They crept even closer, lowering their heads to be at Torrhen's level.

Torrhen chuckled as he tread closer to Rhaegal, shakily raising a hand towards his snout. Dany's breath stilled. Her dragons wouldn't let just anyone pet them. Even amongst her most trust advisors, she could count on one hand the number of people her dragons tolerated enough to approach them. If Torrhen could pet them, she'd have her proof. Perhaps he could even bond with either Rhaegal or Viserion. Assuming Drogon returned soon and Torrhen's missing sister did have a dragon, there was a good chance that all the last living descendants of House Targaryen would be dragon riders, even if two were illegitimate instead of true-born.

"Anyway, when we were little, this… this woman usually came to visit us a lot. She didn't live anywhere close, but she was friends with our mother, so she came to see us whenever she could. Lya and I really liked her. Especially since she gave us our only inheritance from our mother. The—"

"Your mother's inheritance?" Dany blinked. "What're you talking about?"

Just like that, the spell was broken. Torrhen yelped and spun around. He'd been so caught up in talking to the dragons he'd evidently forgotten he had an audience. The dragons screeched, startled. Rhaegal roared as he backed away, shaking his long neck back and forth so hard his chains rattled. Viserion was like an enormous blur of white as he leapt furiously against his restraints. He flapped his wings hard with every attempt, desperately trying to weaken the links in the chain and collar.

Everyone immediately sprang into action. Torrhen whipped around in alarm, eyes boggling, and then promptly ran _towards_ them rather than away. Dany signaled to the others to get him out of the way as she dashed forward.

"Viserion! Rhaegal! Easy, easy!" she pleaded. _"Gīda ilagon, ziry iksos mirre paktot!"_

She heard Torrhen protest as Ser Barristan, Daario, and the other guards dragged him back up to the safety of the entrance, but she didn't dare turn around. Her children were still on edge, and without her reassurance they might accidentally roast them all for supper. She was known as the unburnt, but that was one area of Valyrian magic she was not keen on testing out on Torrhen. Especially not when her soldiers were in range and were definitely not of Targaryen descent.

"Let me go! Let me go!" he screamed, fighting vehemently. "I — I have to—!"

A loud screech from Rhaegal drowned out the rest of his words. Viserion cried, tugging relentlessly against his chains and collar. Dany patted their hides, murmuring more soothing words in High Valyrian. It wasn't much, but it did placate her dragons well enough until everyone was outside again. Once they were gone, their roars and screeches gradually pandered off, and soon it was silent in the cavern again.

"I'm so sorry, sweetlings. This was my fault," she whispered. "I shouldn't have interrupted him like that. If I hadn't, you two wouldn't have been startled."

Her sons warbled, sadly nudging her with their snouts. Their disappointment was so obvious it broke Dany's heart.

"I'll try to bring him back another time, all right? I think he liked you both, but let's give him some time to calm down from this little scare first before trying again, shall we?"

Rhaegal and Viserion crooned, but Dany knew they were still unhappy. Casting her sad looks, the dragons turned and shuffled miserably back into the darkness. Her heart clenched in despair at their sorrow, but she forced herself to ignore it. She hated having to leave them alone down here, but it was necessary.

"I'll try to visit again later, my sweetlings. If Torrhen's feeling up to it, I'll try convincing him to come back, too."

Her sons made no acknowledgment of having heard her. Sighing sadly, Dany slowly went back upstairs.

Two Unsullied sealed off the entrance again as she approached Torrhen and the others. The boy appeared to be in slight shock after the whole ordeal, and Ser Barristan was doing his best to gently coax him out of it while his direwolf pressed up against his side.

"They… They were…"

"It's all right, Torrhen. You're safe, now."

"No… N-No, they—"

"I know, I know. Her grace's dragons are wondrous creatures, but never forget that they are still dangerous. Let today be a lesson for you, Torrhen."

"What…? I… I d-don't—"

"For fuck's sake, Little Prince! Snap out of it!"

Torrhen jolted when Daario sharply cuffed him upside the head. Daario chuckled at his reaction, but a sharp growl from Shadow as he snapped at the air close to fingers made him reel his hand back. It definitely helped bring Torrhen back to the present, but Ser Barristan immediately rounded on him, eyes blazing.

"Captain Naharis, that was unnecessary."

"Unnecessary? I disagree. See for yourself, oh great knight."

"Regardless, it was not your place to do that."

"Excuse me for trying to help, old man!"

"That's enough," Dany called, face hard. "What matters is no one was hurt. Especially our young guest." The knight and sellsword both bowed their heads, stepping back quietly. Nodding in acknowledgment, Dany turned to Torrhen. "I apologize for what happened, Torrhen. I did not mean to startle you. Had I not interrupted you, none of that would have—"

"Don't apologize to me! Go back down and apologize to your dragons for how you're killing them!"

Everyone did a double take. Including the queen. "I — what?"

"Torrhen!" Ser Barristan snapped, outraged. "Your grace, I sincerely apologize. I assure you my squire will be thoroughly disciplined for his rude outburst. Torrhen, follow me. You're going to—"

"I'm not trying to be rude or cheeky, Ser Barristan! I meant that literally! Queen Daenerys, why… why are you trying to kill your dragons?! Don't you care about them at all?!"

The ferocity in the knight's eyes slowly faded away, but Dany was only more puzzled. Torrhen's shock… it hadn't been because he was scared of her sons. He was scared _for_ them.

A humorless snort made her look back to Daario. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again. This boy's clearly insane. You really should just ditch this boy somewhere, my queen. He's just—"

The hackles on the back of Shadow's neck rose, and he growled loudly while pawing at the ground, baring his fangs.

Torrhen shot him an ugly scowl. "If I'm mad, then at least I admit it… I admit I have a temper. I admit I have to do better at controlling it. But I'm not crazy. At least, I don't think I am… but Shadow made no such promises. Think twice before calling me insane again, got it?"

Swallowing thickly, Daario pressed his lips together and looked away. Satisfied, the wolf calmed down, but it kept its eyes trained on the sellsword, watching for any sign of disrespect towards his young master.

As surprised as she was by how instinctively Shadow jumped to defend Torrhen, Dany was too baffled by Torrhen's previous comment to care. Shaking her head, she tilted her chin and tried to not appear too ruffled. "Torrhen, I don't understand what you mean. The dragons are my children. My sons. You claim you and your sister have a dragon, one you consider to be like family, so you understand that bond, yes?"

"Of course. Shadow's our brother, and Sōnar's our sister. They're family!"

"Then why on earth would you ask me that? I would never hurt my dragons. No, I _couldn_ _'t."_

He frowned. "But you are! You're… You're keeping them chained up down there like dogs! And in the _dark,_ too! Don't you see how cruel that is?! Can't you see you're killing them?!"

"Torrhen… I know it seems cruel, but what would you have me do instead? I cannot let them hurt people."

"Train them!"

Dany blinked. "Train them?"

"Aye," he nodded. "They're your children, aren't they? You're their mother. It's your duty to teach them right from wrong. You're the only one who can."

Daario chortled, shaking his head. "You really are something else, Little Prince."

"Don't call me—!"

"You've been lying left and right from the day I met you, and now you've gone too far," he smirked. "You really don't have a dragon at all, do you?"

"What? Of course I—!"

"Stop lying, brat. That's bullshit, and you know it."

" _Captain Naharis…"_

"Don't give me that look, old man. You know as well as I do that what your so-called Targaryen bastard squire said is bullshit."

"That's enough, Captain Naharis. Thank you," she cut in. Daario flashed her a grin, but thankfully stayed quiet. It annoyed Dany how at ease he seemed, but she let it slide for now. He was technically correct this time, after all. She turned back to Torrhen, furrowing her brows. "While I do not approve of Captain Naharis' words, I must agree with his assessment. I'm inclined to believe you and your sister truly don't have a dragon."

"What? But… But why do you—?"

"Because you don't understand the nature of dragons at all." Her eyes narrowed as she studied him for the slightest sign of duplicity. "I don't know anything about direwolves, but I assure you dragons are nothing like them. Your wolf is your friend, but you still treat him like a pet. You trained him to obey your commands. Dragons are _not_ pets. They cannot be tamed."

Torrhen stared at her, blinking incredulously. Dany simply closed her eyes and sighed. This was so disappointing. This boy truly wasn't descended from her House at all. Had nothing he'd told her before been real? Did he even have a missing twin sister? If he did, it was likely he'd sought her out to plead for help in returning to Westeros to search for her. Perhaps when she finally set sail for her home country she could take him with her if that was the case. She had nothing against helping the orphaned boy, but for now she'd have to find a good family here in Meereen to take him in. Maybe Hizdahr? As much as the noble infuriated her with his constant pleading to reopen the fighting pits, he'd been loyal thus far. He might be willing to—

"With respect, your grace, I'd say you're the one who doesn't know the first thing about dragons."

Silence overcame the group. Everyone — from the queen to the guards — stopped and stared at the boy, blinking repeatedly. Torrhen was immune to their disbelief, though. He had eyes only for the queen herself, and he had such an annoyed, disapproving look on his face it was shocking.

It took Dany a few moments to find her voice. "I — I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," he scowled, folding his arms. "You're called the Mother of Dragons, but you're clueless about dragons yourselves."

"Torrhen! Apologize, immediately!" Ser Barristan snapped.

"I will not, not when I know I'm right, ser."

"Perhaps now you'd prefer it if I gave your squire a good smack? Clearly he needs better provocation to watch his mouth."

"Captain Naharis—

"Smack me if you want, but I will _not_ take that back! Queen Daenerys is mistreating her dragons out of ignorance of how to take care of them!"

"Torrhen—"

"That does it! One good whack should teach you some—!"

" _Enough."_ The finality in her command silenced her two guards, and even Torrhen flinched a little. Still, he didn't dare back down. Dany wasn't intimidated, though. As a queen, she'd endured worse glares from others and had sent nastier scowls of her own. She merely raised a brow. "Explain yourself, Torrhen, but choose your words carefully. You've just insulted my title as the Mother of Dragons, and unless you're reasoning as to why you did is sound, I will not take that lightly."

He huffed. "Exactly what I said, your grace. You're clueless about your dragons. That's just sad."

Her fury bristled, and it took all her willpower to keep her tone level. "Just what do you mean by that?"

"I saw for myself down there you love them. That's undeniable, but be honest with me. You've already given up on them, haven't you?"

"Given up?'

"On being their 'mother.' You think of them now as tools instead of your children, don't you?"

Red hot rage coursed through her. "This is your first warning. Insult me on how I raise my sons again, and you'll be wishing it was Ser Barristan punishing you instead of me."

"If you're going to punish me, punish me. But at least hear me out first. How hard did you try training them before you decided dragons can't be tamed?"

"I… What does that matter?"

"Because Lyaella and I had no choice but to _work_ hard at taming Sōnar. We didn't have a choice! The Bitch of the North made it very clear that unless we could teach Sōnar to listen to us, she'd have to go! We were _not_ gonna let that happen! We spent every day when we were little training her to obey us. It was hard, but we did it. We taught her to never attack anyone unless we told her to do so. We got her to not fly around attacking the local livestock for food, but to wait to be fed. Hell, we've even been trying to teach her and Shadow how to play music by rumbling and howling in time with our songs! So what you just said about how dragons can never be tamed? That's bullshit. Lyaella and I did it with Sōnar, so there's no reason why you can't do it with your dragons."

Her lips parted, yet nothing came out. Dany's mind was racing. Intellectually, her brain said that everything Torrhen told her was nothing more than a well thought up fantasy he'd been preparing in advance. But in her heart, the idea was farfetched, yet still seemed somewhat possible. Looking back on the early days when her sons first hatched, she never truly tried training them to do anything other than breathe fire when she told them to. And in those early days, she'd had them burn so many people alive on her command — from the warlocks in the House of the Undying to the slavers who sold her Missandei and the Unsullied in Astapor. Could the fact that her children were wild and dangerous to strangers be due to her own negligence in training them?

Her silence only seemed to annoy him further. "Its one thing to keep your dragons locked up when you can't be watching them while you rule the city. It's a whole other thing to ignore them completely without even trying to train them. You want my advice? Find the time to go see them at least once a day from here on out. Spend that time teaching them what they can and can't do. They'll never learn right from wrong unless _you_ do that. You're their mother, so it has to be you. Hell, that's just common sense!"

"Torrhen…"

"I'm being honest, Ser Barristan. I'm telling Queen Daenerys the truth, hard as it is for her to hear. Is that or is that not honorable?"

The knight didn't have an answer to that. He just pressed his lips together and glanced uncertainly to her. Dany turned to look at the sealed off entrance to avoid his gaze.

An eternity seemed to pass before she found voice again. "I suppose I could try training them better. Whether or not it'll make any difference is to be determined, but I admit you have a point regardless, Torrhen."

His scowl lessened. "Good. I'm glad you understand that."

"Though can I assume you'll assist me in this regard? I would like to see how you and your sister supposedly tamed your dragon companion."

"If you want my help, I'll do it," he shrugged. "I don't mind."

She smiled. "All right, then. With any luck, perhaps you'll be able to bond with one of them, too. I suppose you could say that will be the ultimate test in determining whether or not you truly are related to me, Torrhen. If you can bond with either Viserion or Rhaegal, then—"

" _No."_

The queen stopped, blinking repeatedly. Everyone there was caught off guard at the bitterness laced in that one word, but if Torrhen noticed their stares, he didn't acknowledge them. His glare returned full force as he fisted his fingers through his direwolf's fur.

"I… I beg your pardon? 'No,' what?"

He clenched his teeth. _"No,"_ he repeated. "No, I will _not_ do that."

Daario scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Do what, little prince? You gonna keep talking in riddles, or are you—?"

" _Don't call me a prince!_ How many times do I have to say that?!" He snapped, head swiveling around to bark at the sellsword. For once, Daario shut up at Torrhen's words, stunned by the pure hatred in the boy's gaze.

Everyone was stunned actually, but none more so than Dany. Swallowing thickly, she reached out to touch his shoulder. "Torrhen—?"

"Don't ever suggest that again, Queen Daenerys. I have no intention of doing that, regardless of whether or not you believe me."

"Doing what?"

"Making a bond with your dragons. I'm _not_ gonna be a dragon rider. I'm descended from your House, aye, and I love dragons, but Lyaella's destined to be the dragon rider between the two of us, not me. My destiny's lies elsewhere, with Shadow, here. Right, boy?" The wolf pressed up against him, nuzzling his side. Torrhen anger faded at his friends' antics, and he ran his hands through his fur before focusing back on Dany. "Targaryen's have always been known as dragon riders. But me? I'm gonna break that tradition! I'm gonna be the first Targaryen _direwolf_ rider! House Stark's a joke when it comes to being respectful to their House emblem, so I'm gonna show them and the entire North want a _real_ Northerner with a direwolf is capable of! No dragons for me! It's me and Shadow, now and always!"

Dany stared, lost for words. Of all the things she expected to hear, this was not one of them. Never had it occurred to her that there would be a Targaryen descendant who would reject the tradition of dragon riding in order to set a whole new standard in legendary creature riding. She gazed back and forth between Torrhen and Shadow as she struggled to wrap her mind around the concept.

Daario recovered faster than she did, though. "Well, that settles it, then. This boy really is a liar. He's hiding the fact he's too scared to ride a dragon behind this ridiculous idea."

"Fuck you! I'm not scared! I just have my own dreams!"

"Right, right. Of course you do… _Prince Snow._ _"_

"Don't call me—!"

"How exactly would you be a direwolf rider, Torrhen?" she interrupted. "I mean no offense, but Shadow is just about the same size as you. If you were to climb onto his back, you'd risk seriously hurting him."

Torrhen perked up, grinning wholeheartedly. "Oh, he's not full grown yet, Queen Daenerys. Give him maybe another year or so, and Shadow will be the size of a horse! Right, bud?" His wolf panted, tongue dangling out of the side of his mouth as his tail swayed back and forth. Torrhen snickered. "Aye, that's right. Direwolves can grow far larger than typical wolves, your grace. Some say they can even grow larger than men!"

"Oh," she exclaimed. "I… I see…"

Thankfully, she was spared from having to think up a better response by Missandei hurrying towards them. "Your grace, forgive me for interrupting, but Hizdahr has arrived."

"Oh, good. Is he waiting in the council chambers?"

"Yes, your grace."

"Very well, I shall see him at once. Thank you, Missandei."

Nodding respectfully, her handmaiden turned and led the way back to the Great Pyramid. From the corner of her eye, Dany saw Daario quickly follow, but Ser Barristan held out an arm, stopping Torrhen from trekking after them. He murmured something quietly to the boy, but whatever it was made Torrhen huff and sulk back inside through a separate entrance, dragging his feet the whole time as Shadow trotted after him. Ser Barristan paid no mind to his behavior though and quickened his stride to catch up to the rest of them.

"My apologies for my squire's behavior, your grace. I assure you I'll do everything I can to teach him proper respect from now on."

"It's quite all right, Ser Barristan. I could see you were trying to temper his behavior. Though may I where Torrhen is going? As your squire, he has a right to attend this upcoming meeting, provided he listens and doesn't interfere."

"Oh, he'll be there, your grace. I just need him to perform a short task first. Call it teaching that boy the ramifications of what he'll be missing out on due to losing his temper earlier during training and then for being rude to you, your grace."

* * *

"Cruel. That's what this is, Shadow. Ser Barristan is deliberately being cruel."

Shadow gazed at him, red eyes blinking with innocent curiosity.

Torrhen growled. "Don't look at me like that. You got nice little handouts back there. Me? I got squat."

His wolf whined, then promptly glanced at the tray in his young master's hands.

"Hey, this doesn't count. This is just the wine pitcher and goblets Ser Barristan told me to fetch from the kitchens. I'm talking about real food. All those servants were more than happy to toss you kitchen scraps. But me? Not a chance! 'Oh, we're terribly sorry, Torrhen Snow,'" he snapped, sullenly imitating the high pitched voice of a young freedman. "'We were specifically ordered by Ser Barristan not to provide you dinner tonight. I'm afraid it would go against his orders to give you with a snack.'"

Shadow panted and trotted on ahead. Torrhen scowled. This task Ser Barristan gave him was just plain mean. It was one thing to take away his late night meal tonight as promised and make him go to bed on an empty stomach. It was a whole other thing to send him down to the kitchens after giving him that punishment to torment him as he fetched the wine pitcher and goblets as requested. He was already hungry, and every second he spent down there was nothing short of torture. It was just way too cruel.

He huffed and readjusted his grip on the tray as he hurried up a flight of stairs. This small council meeting was going to be long and boring. While he was still anxious to share his thoughts to his future mother on how she was failing in her rulership over the city, he knew he wouldn't be allowed to contribute his thoughts. This torment of being subjected to the mouthwatering smells in the kitchen was undoubtedly punishment for speaking his mind to the queen outside the catacombs. If he did so again during this meeting, he'd probably be looking at no dinner tomorrow night, too. That was not happening, no way, no how. Yet that meant he was going to be stuck in that meeting for ages with nothing to do. It was going to be so _boring_ _…_

As he passed his private solar, a sudden idea sprang to mind, and he quickly ducked inside. If he was going to be forced to sit in that meeting without being allowed to talk, there was no reason why he had to sit there and be bored the whole time. Walking to his desk, he folded up all the papers for his unfinished songs into the inner pockets of his tunic, pocketed his quill, and hastily screwed the lid back onto his small ink pot before tucking it in his fist while he carried the tray. With his songs all safely stored away, Torrhen whistled for Shadow to hurry along and set back off down the hall.

Upon entering the council chambers, he saw the meeting had already begun. Whatever the adults had been discussing though immediately halted as they saw him enter with the tray.

"Ah, there you are, Torrhen. I was starting to wonder if you got lost on the way here."

"My apologies, Ser Barristan. I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Not at all. Please, do come in," said Daenerys brightly.

Hurrying forward, he set the first empty goblet down in front of the queen and carefully poured the wine. One by one, he went around the table, pouring the wine to everyone except Missandei and Grey Worm, who both tactfully declined the drink. As he approached Daario, however, the sellsword shot him a jaunty smirk.

"Hey, you trying to skimp off on the wine just because I like to tease you? More, boy!"

Torrhen shot him a nasty look, yet held his tongue as he tilted the pitcher again. He honestly hadn't given Daario any less wine than he'd given anyone else, but if the asshole wanted more, then fine. Provided he kept his mouth shut, no one would get annoyed with him this time.

"Oh, now wait a minute! You're pouring it to the rim!" he suddenly exclaimed. "You hoping I spill it all over myself? Not that much!"

He rolled his eyes, but still held his tongue as he carefully picked up the goblet and started to pour some of it back into the pitcher—

"Now there's not enough again! More, please!"

"Are you doing this deliberately to get a rise out of me?! If you are, then I respectfully request permission to be annoyed this time, Ser Barristan. I'm _trying_ to do what you want by holding my tongue, but he's deliberately antagonizing me this time for no good reason!"

"That's enough, Torrhen. You've made your point. Captain Naharis, I've asked you already to not provoke my squire. Please respect that request."

"Fine, fine. It was only innocent jesting."

"Torrhen, whatever amount of wine is in Captain Naharis' goblet, just leave it be. You may set the tray and pitcher down on that side table over there and then take your seat."

"Aye, thank you, your grace."

Following his future mother's orders, he did as she said and slid into the only open seat next to Ser Barristan. Shadow on the other hand padded his way over to a nearby rug and curled up to relax.

"Sit and listen, Torrhen," his mentor instructed. "If you ever wish to become a good knight and possibly Lord Commander of the royal guard, you must know how small council meetings are run. Learn by example." Forcing a smile, Torrhen squeezed the ink pot tighter in his fist and nodded. Satisfied, Ser Barristan nodded approvingly and focused back on the queen. "Now then, where were we?"

"We were discussing the necessity of importing more supplies for the last of the rebuilding from elsewhere in Slaver's Bay at moderate prices. Missandei, I believe you were the last to speak, correct?"

"Yes, your grace. If I remember correctly, I think I was saying there were some merchants from Pentos offering to sell to us."

"At what cost?"

"Well…"

"Missandei?"

"They're aware of our need for such materials right now, so they've… _increased_ their price."

"To what, may I ask?"

"…"

"I see…"

Ideas were bounced around by everyone as they weighed the pros and cons on each one. Truthfully, Torrhen has no idea what was so bad about using a more costly alternative than a slightly cheaper one. So long as his future mother didn't make the same mistake the stupid Bitch of the North did in his timeline by taking out a loan from the Iron Bank, any idea was a good one.

"What if we halted our construction of the new shops and businesses, your grace? If we held off on that for awhile, we could make do with our current materials to finish rebuilding all the old freedmen dwellings, at the very least."

"A good idea in theory, Ser Barristan, but the construction of those are critical to the advancement of the city. We need those areas finished so we can establish a new form of trade in the city, to bring the gold back in. Meereen is spending more than it's earning right now what with everything going on."

"We focus on half, then," said Grey Worm. "Finish half of shops, leave rest for now. Use rest of material for homes. Or sickhouses."

"Hmm, I suppose that could work…"

"Tch, hardly. We spend time fixing the city now, and we'll only waste more gold when the Harpies strike again. They ransacked the bazaar in that last riot. Until we stamp them out, rebuilding the city is pointless."

"We cannot just ignore the needs of the people while we deal with the Harpies, Captain Naharis. There's still quite a fair share of people who don't have a roof over their head at night. We cannot simply forget about them."

"But if we focus on helping them now, we'll only have to help them again and maybe others who _do_ have homes right now if the Harpies attack them next time. They're your biggest threat right now, so stopping them has to be the top priority."

Ever so slowly, Torrhen reached into the inner folds of his tunic and tugged out a song page at random. Leaving it on his knees, he pulled out his quill from his pocket and carefully unscrewed the ink pot. Having no choice but to leave the bottle out in plain sight on the tabletop, he unfolded the page under the surface and readjusted his chair slightly to have a clearer view of his lap. Looks like he caught a break. He'd pulled out the page where he'd last left off on when working on his mother's song. Chancing a quick peek up at everyone else to ensure they weren't watching, he swiftly dipped his quill into the pot and scribbled down a fast eighth note.

For awhile, no one seemed to notice anything. Torrhen continuously jotted down notes on the page, but after every other note he'd look up at everyone to appear like he was paying attention. So long as he blocked the ink pot from view by leaning his free arm in front of it, and listened for any lulls in the conversation so no one would hear the scratching of his quill on the parchment, no one was any wiser to what he was up to.

Or at least, they hadn't been. Until—

"Your grace, I know you don't want to hear this, but reopening the fighting pits might be the best way we address all these problems at once."

Daenerys frowned. "Hizdahr, I've made my decision about the fighting pits quite clear. That will _not_ be happening. Moreover, I fail to see how reopening them could be the answer to all these issues we're dealing with."

Hizdahr sighed. "Right now, your grace, the Sons of the Harpy are angry because they believe that the freedmen are not worthy of respect. They see them as lesser people than themselves, and that the nobles should be the only ones with power."

Her eyes narrowed. "I'm aware of how the former masters think, Hizdahr. It's that very way of thinking that I'm striving to end. Nor have I forgotten that you yourself are a former master. Are you suggesting that's how you also see freedmen of this city?"

"Not at all, your grace. I'm merely reminding you what the group at a whole thinks of your actions. The fact remains that even though you've given the common people their freedom, the rich and poor still see a line dividing their classes. Right now, there is nothing allowing the citizens of Meereen to look past that line."

"And allowing the practice of human cockfighting will somehow change that?"

"I understand that in your eyes it's a terrible practice, your grace, but for the people of Meereen, it's a yearly tradition. It's sport. The men who would fight wouldn't be slaves who are forced to fight, they'd be freedmen who wish to do so. Those who wish to fight in your name and honor."

"Well, I do not wish for anyone to die in my name for loose entertainment! It's barbaric and beyond inhumane! And I don't see how reopening the fighting pits would help our financial troubles and rebuilding the city."

"Warriors would flock to Meereen from all across Essos. Merchants would arrive too, eager to sell and trade. I know you're not keen on raising the tax any higher than you already have, your grace, and I agree that doing so would paint you in a worse light to the people than you currently are, but garnering more trade by reopening the pits would solve our current financial problems. We could easily finish rebuilding and constructing all the new trade centers with hardly any trouble."

"But at the price of human slaughter? _Absolutely not!_ _"_

She slapped the table harshly to emphasize, except—

"Gah! Fuck!"

The adults whipped around. Torrhen had dropped his quill and leapt out of his chair to protect his song sheet as the ink pot toppled over from the force of the table shaking. Great globs of ink splattered all across the tabletop, though most of it ran over the edge of the surface and dripped across the floor.

"Shit, shit, shit! Goddammit! Fuck!" Torrhen swore, carefully backing away from the mess. "Seven fucking hells! Sorry! So sorry! I'll — I'll find a rag or something! Be right back!"

Tucking his song score back into his tunic, he bolted out of the council room before anyone could say anything. Even when he returned a few minutes later with a handful of rags he'd gotten from a passing servant, he didn't give anyone the chance to say anything. He simply dashed back to the mess and scrambled to wipe it up.

"I — I'm really sorry, your grace! I'll get this cleaned up right away!"

"Thank you, Torrhen, but—"

"Really, it's no trouble! This — This was my fault, after all!"

"Yes, but—"

"It's — It's fine! No need to call a servant! I'll—"

"Torrhen, sit. _Now._ _"_

He froze. Ser Barristan's tone… he was _not_ pleased.

Gulping thickly, he plastered the most innocent smile onto his face that he could muster as he gazed up at the knight. "But ser, I haven't finished cleaning the—"

"You can clean it in a moment. Right now, sit."

Torrhen grimaced. Averting his eyes, he mopped up the little bit of ink that had landed on the chair and miserably sat back down.

"Look at me, Torrhen. Now."

Biting his lip, he reluctantly glanced up. Everyone was either blinking incredulously at the ink spill, or staring at him in bewilderment. Everyone except Ser Barristan. His liege knight was fixing him with the most disapproving, authoritative frown he'd ever seen anyone wear, including the Bitch of the North's usual sneer.

Without breaking eye contact, Ser Barristan vaguely waved his hand at the ink mess still on the table. "Torrhen, what is this?"

"An ink spill," he mumbled.

"Why is there an ink spill?"

He didn't answer.

" _Torrhen?"_

"…I was using it."

"Didn't I tell you to listen to our discussion? Learn?"

Torrhen sighed and stubbornly looked away.

His nostrils flared. "Show us what you considered more important than paying attention. Now."

The boy huffed. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out the unfinished music pages and passed them over. The knight wordlessly leafed through them with a raised brow.

From the corner of his eye, Torrhen caught sight of Daario casually folding his arms as he snorted. "What's all that? Lists of battle plans? You planning for the attack on King's Landing already, little prince?"

Torrhen scowled. "S-Shut up!" he snapped, his face growing hot.

"Is that your music score, Torrhen?" asked the queen, standing and circling around the table to see for herself. "Were you working on that under the table while we were talking?"

It was like his tongue had suddenly swelled up. "Aye, Queen Daenerys," he mumbled, bowing his head. "Sorry…"

Ser Barristan's expression was completely unreadable as he sifted between the pages. Beyond raising a brow, it was impossible to determine what he was thinking. Finally he set them aside and turned to his squire. "You certainly have talent when it comes to music, Torrhen, but this was not the proper time to be working on this," he declared. "I told you to pay attention to this council session. You disobeyed me."

"I'm sorry, I won't do it again," he grumbled. "Can you give them back, now?"

Ser Barristan shook his head. "This was very disrespectful of you, Torrhen. The problems going on right now in Meereen are no light matter, yet you don't see the point in learning what to do to fix them."

"What? No, that's not—!"

"Torrhen, I can see you value these greatly and I have no issue with you working on them on your own time, but while you are committed to squirely duties then you must focus on them." He sighed. "Which is why I'll be confiscating these. You'll get them back when I am confident you've learned to pay attention."

Torrhen jerked, eyes bulging. "No, please don't! I won't do it again, really! I'll take them to my solar right away, I swear!"

"I'm sorry, Torrhen, but you brought this on yourself," said Ser Barristan, folding up the pages and tucking them away into his own tunic. "There's a time and a place for things, and this was not the proper time to be working on this. You should've been paying attention to the meeting, learning from example."

"Well, what's the point in listening when I know everything you're suggesting is wrong?!"

The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Everyone did a double take at him, blinking several times for good measure. Torrhen simply froze, dread seeping into his being. Shit. If he wasn't in trouble before, he certainly was now. Why the hell was it so hard for him to think before he opened his mouth?

Ser Barristan sighed, his gaze growing twice as intense. "Return to your chambers. We will discuss this—"

"Ser Barristan, forgive me for interrupting, but I mentioned this to you in passing earlier, your grace."

Everyone turned to Missandei with matching looks of puzzlement. The translator ignored all of them and only smiled politely to the queen.

Daenerys tilted her head, confused. "I beg your pardon?"

"I told you about my brief conversation with Torrhen this morning," she explained. "I mentioned he'd vaguely told me his concerns for the city."

Ser Barristan frowned. "Lady Missandei, with all due respect, even if he does have some opinions on how things in the city are being handled, it was still disrespectful of him to not pay attention. I must punish him for his disrespect."

"Of course, ser. I'm not arguing that, but I don't believe you should send him away just yet. If he wasn't listening to our discussion was because he was forbidden to contribute his thoughts, then perhaps we should let him contribute?"

There was a long pause. Torrhen could only stare hopefully at Missandei as the rest of the small council exchanged various looks. Daario scoffed at the notion, but Grey Worm appeared torn, glancing uncertainty between him and the Naathi translator.

Hizdahr however nodded at her suggestion, and turned to Torrhen with a raised brow. "I must admit, I did something similar when I was a boy. Whenever my father lectured me in how to balance a ledger, I'd draw to occupy myself. It wasn't until he caught me doing that multiple times that he changed his approach to teaching me while making me work through his own ledger that I actually started learning."

Ser Barristan frowned. "But that would mean rewarding dishonorable conduct, and I'm not keen on doing that."

"Don't think of it as a reward, Ser Barristan," said Daenerys, returning to her seat. "You have already decided upon an appropriate punishment for Torrhen's lack of focus — taking away his music sheets. That seems more than fair in my eyes. As for letting him contribute his own thoughts to our meeting, I believe Hizdahr has a point."

Hizdahr jerked, lips parting in disbelief. "T-Truly, your grace?"

A muscle grew taut in her cheek. "In this regard, yes. Not necessarily in other matters." He frowned, yet nodded in acceptance. Appeased, she turned back to the knight. "Sometimes the best way to learn is by experiencing things for yourself. When I was on the Great Grass Sea, I learned how to speak and act like a khaleesi because I was given the opportunity to take charge and give commands. Had my situation been reversed with Viserys and he by some miracle was able to get the Dothraki to see him worthy of respect, I never would have learned that."

The creases in his forehead wrinkled as he thought this over. "Then what are you suggesting, your grace?"

Daenerys smiled. "If he has his own thoughts and opinions on what's happening in the city, I would like to hear them. Whether he's capable of expressing those ideas in an intelligent, respectful manner is a whole other matter, as is whether his ideas are even feasible to carry out." She paused, turning to look at Torrhen. "Tell me, Torrhen, do you believe what your ideas are regarding the city are simply hopeful wishes for me to carry out, or reasonable ideas like I was discussing with my small council?"

Torrhen bit his lip. "Um… maybe both? Some things you probably won't like, but they're still things I think you _must_ change for the good of your rule. Not just because it'll be good for Meereen, but so you'll be accepted in Westeros, too."

"What makes you say that?" Daario chuckled. "You're… what? Just past your eighth nameday? What would you know about Westerosi affairs?"

He clenched his fists. "My sister and I are _nine,_ actually. And I still know more than you. Have you ever been to Westeros?"

That shut him up. Daario stared at him for a long moment, then rolled his eyes and looked away. "Fine, fine. Carry on if you think you're so smart, little prince."

"For the last time, don't call me—!"

"Torrhen, if you wish for me to listen seriously, you must behave seriously. Is that clear?" Torrhen huffed, but stiffly nodded. "Good. Now, getting back to what we were discussing, what you said puzzles me. What do you mean by me being accepted by the people in Westeros? The Lannister's are quite hated by the people as far as we've heard, and the Baratheon king claimant is merely trying to assert his claim on the throne through his lineage to the Usurper. The last we heard, he seemingly abandoned the war and took his armies to your homeland in the North. We don't understand why, but from our perspective he appears to have made a foolish mistake. Why wouldn't the people wish to follow me instead?"

It took everything Torrhen had to keep a straight face. In all his planning to meet his future mother and start persuading her to change her ways to ensure her survival in this new timeline, it had never occurred to him what he would say when the time came. This was going to be hard to explain without revealing too much information about the future. Everything he said would have to follow the rules of Truth or Half-Truth very, very carefully.

"Well, you forget I was on the streets for a few months, your grace. I was among the common people, and even the nobles. I saw things from their perspective. With all due respect, your grace, considering how Meereen is on the verge of collapse from both the Sons of the Harpies and from rebuilding everything, don't you think it'd be a good idea to listen to someone who's spent time looking at your actions over the past few months who was _not_ on your small council during it all?"

She was quiet for several moments as she considered this, then firmly nodded. "I see your point. Go ahead, tell me what you think about my decisions, then."

Torrhen smiled, then fished back inside his tunic for any leftover blank parchment. Pulling out a sheet, he dipped his quill back into the little bit of ink that still remained in the ink pot before scribbling on the page.

"Torrhen, what're you—?"

"Just writing a quick list. I don't wanna forget anything." He finished a minute or so later and blew gently on the page to dry the ink. He was about to pass it to her, but then a thought came to him and he looked up again. "Please understand that even though I wrote all this rather bluntly, I'm not trying to be rude or disrespectful. I'm just writing all this down in the same manner others here in the city told me things, or in my personal opinion so you understand how much I firmly believe that you change your decisions things as soon as possible."

She tilted her head, brows furrowing in gentle confusion, yet still nodded. Satisfied, Torrhen slid the parchment across the table.

Taking it curiously, Daenerys' eyes skimmed the first few lines. The more she read, however, the larger they became.

_1) Abolish your contract with the Second Sons and hire the Golden Company to replace them_ _— I_ _'m NOT saying this because I don't like Daario! The Golden Company is a sellsword company that upholds honor, and the Second Sons don't. They ignore the needs of the common people._

_2) You MUST stop destroying the culture and history of the city of Meereen. Slavery is evil and should be rid from the world, but your other actions regarding the culture and history of the Meereenese people is wrong and I AGREE with the nobles that you_ _'re acting like a tyrant._

_3) You have mixed views on how the law should be carried out. You planned to give one man a trial, but then a freedman killed him so you killed that man without a trial. Shouldn_ _'t the law apply to everyone before you kill them?_

_4) Find and forgive Ser Jorah for banishing him. He_ _'s a good man and you'll NEED his advice on how to earn the support of the North when you finally set sail for Westeros!_

"Your grace?" asked Ser Barristan, the adults exchanging puzzled looks at her visible shock. "Is… Is everything all right? If my squire suggested anything against your principles, I sincerely apologize."

The queen mutely shook her head, passing the sheet of parchment to Missandei on her left. One by one, everyone read through Torrhen's list and passed the sheet around the table. The knight frowned intensely the more he read, but to Torrhen's surprise he didn't turn to him when he finished. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, thinking intensely. Torrhen didn't know what to make of his mentor's reaction. His future mother's shock he understood, but he had no clue on what could be going through the knight's head after reading his list. Was he thinking up some new way to punish him for speaking his mind?

A derisive, angry snort pulled him back to the present. "This is a joke, right? You trying to get revenge on me for throwing you out of the pyramid?" Torrhen turned. For once, Daario wasn't flashing him a cocky grin or a mocking eye roll. If anything, the sellsword was glaring daggers at him as he crumpled the parchment tightly in his fist.

The look on his face nearly made Torrhen smirk — finally, the man knew how he felt whenever he ridiculed him. "What?"

"This! Your top suggestion!" he snapped, waving the sheet furiously. "What the hell's up with you?!"

Torrhen had to look away as he failed to conceal his snickers. "I'd say you're only further proving my point on why the queen should do that."

"Come again?!"

He bit his lip, chest quivering as he struggled not to laugh.

"That does it—!"

"Calm yourself, Captain Naharis," Daenerys ordered. "It will do us no good if you switch places with Torrhen and lose your temper." Daario scowled, yet obeyed her command and leaned back in his seat with an angry huff. She raised a brow at his behavior, but ignored it to focus back on Torrhen. "Torrhen, I'm sure you're still angry about how you were turned away when you tried to meet me properly, but even if you're upset with Captain Naharis, that's no reason to take out your anger with his entire sellsword company. The Second Sons have been loyal to me since I liberated the people of Yunkai. It would be incredibly disrespectful of me to simply dismiss them only to hire another sellsword company in their place."

"Not if it's because of how disrespectful they are to the common people," he retorted. "I wrote down specifically that this has nothing to do with Daario. The Second Sons as a whole are _not_ the type of sellswords you should be associating with if you ever want to rule in Westeros."

Daario's glare intensified. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that anyone who plans to conquer the Seven Kingdoms doesn't want to be associated with sellswords that kept turning me away whenever I tried to get food rations."

Daario tensed, but Daenerys and the other adults all straightened at that news, now listening attentively. "What? Say that again?"

"I went to the Second Sons almost everyday while I was on the streets, your grace. I know they didn't believe me about being related to you, but they wouldn't even give me food after a couple days of going to them. I was starving, but they ignored me. And not just me, either. They did the same to others if they showed up everyday, but only to the homeless freedmen. The homeless former masters? So long as they had gold in their pockets, they were welcomed back."

She whipped around to Daario, making him flinch. "Is this true, Captain Naharis? I specifically told you to have your men distribute food to all the citizens in Meereen, but priority was to be given to those who'd been left homeless after the disaster. If you told your men to _not_ do this—"

"Daenerys, no! That's not—!"

"You shall address me as _'your grace,'_ Captain Naharis. Now, yes or no?"

His throat bobbed. "I admit my men had to turn some people away when distributing supplies, but can I at least defend myself before you pass judgment, your grace?"

Her eyes didn't lose their sharp edge, but she nodded for him to continue.

"At first, my men didn't turn people away. I told them to carry out your orders to the letter and give out rations to everyone who asked. But they all started to run low after a while! Half the city was left on the streets, my queen, and there just wasn't enough food for everyone. It was either prioritize rations for those strong enough to help rebuild and get the city back on its feet, or keep focusing on the homeless and have the city collapse!"

"Don't you think that's something you should have reported in the last few meetings?" Hizdahr exclaimed. "My family was lucky enough to endure minimal damage during the earthquake, but we're aware of how much the city is suffering. I've been running our ledgers dry trying to get the city rebuilt. Had I been aware of the food shortage, I could have been sending for more food and grain than I already was!"

"There were more pressing matters to be discussed, what with the Sons of the Harpy lashing out! Until they're gone, there's no point in rebuilding Meereen. They're just gonna keep wrecking it until we stop them for good!"

"Regardless, that was not for you to decide on your own. You should have mentioned this immediately when you noticed the issue. Had I known the food shortage was that bad…" she shook her head, sighing in frustration. "Hizdahr, could you…?"

"Of course, my queen. I'll make arrangements for more food and grain to be shipped in."

"Thank you. As for the Second Sons, from now on they'll be limited strictly to rebuilding the last of the damage."

Daario gaped. "What?! But… But my queen—!"

"This is not debatable. While I don't intend to dismiss the Second Sons considering how loyal they've been to my cause, your actions as their leader as well as their individual behavior is testing my patience, Captain Naharis. This is not a helpless town you and your men were hired to plunder. This is a city. A city I'm determined to liberate from the shackles of slavery. Every single person in this city is therefore my responsibility. Rulership is certainly much more difficult than I imagined whilst marching on the road, but I chose this path and I intend to see it through. Is that clear?"

Her tone left no room for debate. "Yes, your grace."

"Good. Grey Worm, surely you can find men in your ranks who can take over distributing supplies to the people, yes?"

"Yes, my queen."

"Splendid, thank you." She turned to Torrhen again. "Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Torrhen. I promise you this matter will be addressed immediately so that no one else will hopefully be starving like you were. You have my apologies for how you were treated."

"Thank you, Queen Daenerys, but my point still remains about hiring the Golden Company."

"Torrhen—"

"I really think you should hire them! I know I interrupted you, and I know that's against the rules, but… but please think about it! The Golden Company is honorable. I know you value loyalty, your grace, so you don't wanna fire the Second Sons, but please… think about how they'll look to the people in the Seven Kingdoms when you set sail for Westeros!"

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

Torrhen hesitated, biting his lip. This was when he would really have to bring Truth or Half-Truth into play. "I'm unsure if I should say this…" he said, stalling for time.

"It's all right," she said, folding her hands nearly on the table. "Go ahead."

He stayed quiet as he gathered his thoughts, then took a deep breath as he sighed. "It'd probably be better if we came back to this in a minute. I think we should discuss you welcoming Ser Jorah back first."

Her brows narrowed. "That is out of the question."

"But your grace—"

"He betrayed my trust, Torrhen. In the worst possible way imaginable. I don't know what he may or may not have told you when you met him, but I will not welcome him back into my service."

"But without him, you'll never win the North's support! The North isn't like the Southern Kingdoms!"

Missandei tilted her head, confused. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I've seen many societies in my lifetime, but things are more or less the same in all of them when it comes to leadership. The strong take what they want, the weak accept that or die for their pride."

The boy snorted. "And that's essentially the problem. Northerners _won_ _'t_ accept that. They'd rather die for their pride."

The queen blinked while Grey Worm and Missandei exchanged looks of disbelief. Hizdahr looked baffled by the idea, but Ser Barristan sighed, rubbing his temples tiredly. Despite his annoyance with the legendary knight's strict tutelage, Torrhen was glad he was still here. If the knight had died in this timeline, there'd be no way for Daenerys to see that the only Westerosi-born man on her council was only staying silent because he understood the practicality in what he was saying.

Daario didn't seem to care what he said though and rolled his eyes. "Fine, let them, then," he snorted, kicking up his heels on the tabletop. "Sounds to me like your people are just as stubborn and thickheaded as the damn masters here in Essos. If killing them all is what it'll take to make them obey our queen, then fine. That's what we'll do."

"Do that, and you'll destroy any chance whatsoever in them learning to love you. They'll never forget that slaughter. Never."

"Listen, little prince—"

"No, _you_ listen to _me._ This is one thing I know what I'm talking about. I'm a Northerner, so I know them. Can anyone else here say the same? I mean, how much do any of you know about the North? Enough to know what our most common saying is? Excluding you, Ser Barristan, because you're the only other Westerosi here and should know this, do any of you know what I'm talking about?"

Silence filled the chamber. Ser Barristan stared at him contemplatively as the others exchanged questioning looks.

"Obviously not. Well, it goes like this: 'the North remembers.' Along with the words of House Stark, it's a phrase every Northerner knows and it's true. Northerners… we're different than other societies, your grace."

"No two societies are exactly alike, Torrhen," she said, swallowing thickly. "That's why they're divided into different societies."

He shook his head. "You don't understand. Queen Daenerys, Northerners are… they're very… shit, how do I explain this…?" Pinching the bridge of his nose, he suddenly pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, not looking at anyone as he paced back and forth.

Missandei frowned. "Is something the matter?"

"I need a second. I'm trying to figure out how to best explain this…"

"Explain what?" asked Grey Worm.

"How the culture and bad history of Northerners whenever we get involved with anything south of the Neck has warped the thinking of the country as a whole. It's… It's just something that I — well — _know._ Trying to describe the mindset of a Northerner to a non-Northerner… I've never done that before. It's hard to explain…"

"Try, please," Daenerys urged, studying him intently. "You have me intrigued, now."

"Well… I guess the best way to put it is that everyone south of the Neck is probably more or less what you're used to. The nobles live rich, entertaining lives. They play games and squabble with each other to get what they want. It's not like that in the North. Like the Stark words say, Winter is always coming, even in the Summer. It's a harsh country with a rough daily life, so we consider Southern matters to be a waste of time and resources. A good cloak, a hot meal, and a good night's sleep in front of a warm fire is valued a thousand times more than a crown and a chair of melted swords."

Everyone exchanged bewildered looks. Torrhen could tell his description of Northern values had shocked them, and he wasn't surprised. No Southerner could fully understand what it meant to be a Northerner, least of all people who had never set foot in the North before.

"I can see you believe what you're saying, Torrhen," said the queen finally. "However… I'm not entirely certain whether or not I do, too."

"Why? I'm not lying, my queen. I swear I'm not!"

"I'm not presuming you are, it's just… I don't understand how your description of the North could be true whereas compared to Ser Jorah's stories. He always spoke very fondly of his homeland. If anything, if what you're telling me about the people in your home country is true, then I'm surprised that you suggest I welcome Ser Jorah back into my ranks. That won't be happening no matter how much you ask."

"But the way Northerners act towards non-Northerners is exactly why you _need_ Ser Jorah's council. I'm not an adult like all of you. I don't understand politics. I just know that when it comes to the North, I understand how Northerners think and he was once the Lord of Bear Island. He might have been exiled from Westeros a long time ago, but he knows how to deal with Northerners. You need his council, because the North will _never_ submit to you."

Daenerys pressed her lips together tightly. "Explain why your people wouldn't follow me. I still don't understand."

"All right… let me put it like this. Permission to be blunt, your grace?"

"Granted."

"You could sacrifice everything for the North — your armies, your dragons, your trusted friends — and it won't mean a damn thing. They'll still see you as nothing more than a Southerner who is just the Mad King's daughter. You're not a queen in their eyes, let alone a human being."

Silence. Dead silence. Aside from Ser Barristan who bit his lip sadly as he mused over the truth in his words, everyone else just stared at him in complete shock by his description. Torrhen only sighed and glanced over to where Shadow was sprawled out. It wasn't like he enjoyed telling the queen that, but it was necessary. His future mother needed to know what to expect.

It seemed like an eternity passed before Daario chortled sarcastically. "And yet you say our beautiful queen should _not_ slaughter them all? Assuming you're right about your people, little prince, sounds to me like we should conquer them first when we cross the sea. If they're that opposed to our queen's rule, perhaps chopping off a few heads would make them realize they should shut their mouths and obey."

Torrhen scowled. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you to stop calling me a prince, but stop already! And I told you already that killing them to make a point won't work! The North will remember that tyranny and they'll _never_ support her after that!"

"You keep saying, 'the North remembers.' Why that matter?" asked Grey Worm. "What important about North memory?"

He clenched his fists as he marched back to his seat, glowering at the Commander of the Unsullied the entire time. "It's important because Northern customs dictate that our way is the Old Way. We do not conform to new ideals. We do not let bygones be bygones. The other six kingdoms converted to the Faith of the Seven when the Andals landed in Westeros, but not us. We still worship the Old Gods at the weirwood trees. Personally, Lya and I despise those creepy things. We always feel like our uncle can spy on us through the one in our godswood."

Missandei jerked. "Spy on you? How could—?"

"Long story, and one that'll take us way off track. The point is, Northerners don't _ever_ accept change. The fact that you're trying to change the world for the better is more than enough reason for the North to despise you already, your grace. And our heritage dictates we _never_ forget even the slightest insult inflicted on us, even when it has nothing to do personally with whoever we currently have a problem with."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Hizdahr.

"On the top of my head, Northerners have a problem with Targaryen's after what led to the rebellion. The reasons should be self-explanatory."

Ser Barristan tensed, hesitantly nodding in agreement. "Because of what happened to the late Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark? And the Lady Lyanna?"

"Aye."

"Just because my father was a terrible man and my eldest brother abducted an innocent girl doesn't justify discrimination against me," Daenerys declared, her voice quite firm. "I wasn't even born yet when those events happened. They were not my fault."

Torrhen stared at her for a long moment, then — to everyone's surprise — humorlessly snorted. "You really don't get it, do you? Your grace, Northerners _don_ _'t care_ about that fact. They remember only what they want to remember, and nothing else. They don't want to remember the good times in their history. Only the bad ones."

"That's ridiculous. No society can justly hate people just for—"

"Aye, it's ridiculous, but it's the _truth._ Me and Lyaella have been treated like shit since the day we were born simply because we have Targaryen blood. We never did anything wrong, yet we were hated anyway. It doesn't matter if you personally haven't done anything against them. They remember the terrible things the Mad King did and the stories about Lyanna Stark's death. They hate you already because of them. And with what's happened these past few years during the war, they're never gonna accept a Southern ruler. Not after the Red Wedding."

"A red wedding? What type of Westerosi custom is that? Do the husband and wife get drunk on Dornish Red and keep drinking until the lady's too drunk to notice her own bedding?"

"Captain Naharis, please don't talk that way in front—"

Ser Barristan was cut off by the firm whack of Torrhen's fist slamming down on the table. Everyone gawked, but Torrhen didn't even notice. His eyes were locked solely on the sellsword. "Apologize," he demanded.

Daario blinked, then chuckled with a half-hearted shrug. "Apologize? For what? You don't even understand what I said, do you?"

"No, but I know it can't mean anything good!" he snapped back. "Apologize! Right now!"

"Why should I? It's not like I did anything to—"

"You call making fun of the dishonorable _slaughter_ of thousands of Northmen under the protection of guest rite at a _wedding_ not doing anything?!"

Everyone's eyes bulged. No one dared to be the first to break the hushed silence. Torrhen didn't care, though. He was focused solely on shooting the most poisonous look he could at Daario. It didn't matter that neither he nor Lyaella hadn't been born yet when the Red Wedding happened. The Red Wedding was a terrible event for the North, and as a Northerner he took offense to anyone who dared laugh at it. Besides, Robb Stark had been murdered that day. The Young Wolf might have been an idiot marrying for love and he and Lyaella had never known him, but there was still a possibility he would have been more like family to the two of them had he survived. And unlike the other Starks, he'd never done anything to them or their father. It wasn't right to hate him.

Daenerys hesitantly cleared her throat. "I'll have to remember to find more loyal Targaryen supporters in the Seven Kingdoms to send news on the status of the western continent later. I've been so focused on Meereen and Slaver's Bay that I've neglected to stay informed on recent events in Westeros."

"The Red Wedding didn't exactly happen recently, Queen Daenerys. It happened almost two years ago, by now."

" _Two years?_ Now I'm really wondering how we didn't hear about this. I mean, we heard about the death of Joffrey Waters at the Purple Wedding, but this Red Wedding you speak of… I'm shocked."

Torrhen scoffed. "House Frey was backed by the Lannister's and the Northern traitors the Bolton's for that plot. Fucking Walder Frey… and that's not even the worst part."

"What… What do you mean?" Ser Barristan whispered.

"I mean that all those murders were bad enough alone, but what they did to Robb Stark's corpse? That was sick. Only monsters do something that disgusting… I mean, it's true he broke his vow to marry a Frey girl because he fell in love with some nobody, but nothing justifies making him watch while they stabbed his pregnant wife repeatedly, shooting him multiple times with crossbow bolts, and cutting his mother's throat down to the bone."

"They — They _what?_ _"_

"It's the truth, Lady Missandei. I swear it on the souls of every Northerner who died that day. And guess what they did with the King of the North's body?"

"You make your point, boy. There no need to—"

"No, there _is_ a need to say this, Grey Worm. None of you seem to know what happened that day, and to understand why the North won't bend the knee to our queen, you need to know the full story." Pausing only to ensure he wouldn't be interrupted again, Torrhen focused back on the queen, who was already quite pale from the horrors he'd described. "After that, the Frey's sewed the head of Robb Stark's direwolf onto his headless corpse, and paraded it around the dead bodies of the fallen Northmen yelling, _'All hail the King of the North! Long live the king!'"_

Hizdahr shook his head, eyes wide with disbelief. "They didn't…"

"Oh, they did. It was a horrible, horrible night, and the North will _never_ forget it. Nor have I forgotten that I'm still owed an apology." He snapped his head around to glare at Daario again. "I demand one for your disrespect towards this tragedy."

"All right, fine! I apologize!"

"Hmph. Good." Shaking his head at the leader of the Second Sons, he went on. "I know that House Stark is no friend to House Targaryen, your grace. I know they're partially responsible for why our House is nearly gone. You can form whatever opinion you want of them and Lyaella and I wouldn't care, but Robb Stark did nothing against me and her. He was a fool, but he was still a good person. His death was a terrible thing in our eyes. At the very least, no one deserves to see their wife murdered like that before being murdered themselves."

Daenerys thickly swallowed, her face nearly as pale as her hair. "I… I'm inclined to agree. You're correct in that regard, Torrhen."

He blinked, half relieved, half surprised. "Huh."

"What now, boy? You tell things like you wanted. Are you not happy our queen agrees?"

"No, I am. Very happy, actually. I just wasn't expecting her to agree so easily."

"Why wouldn't she? She's only staying here in Slaver's Bay because she's appalled by the merciless mistreatment the freedmen endured from the former masters. She doesn't enjoy seeing people suffer."

Torrhen tensed. "To be honest, Lady Missandei, I'm actually not so sure about that."

His future mother jerked, lips parts in disbelief. "I beg your pardon?"

"I mean no disrespect, Queen Daenerys, truly. I'm only stating my opinion based on what I saw and heard on the streets from other citizens. That's why I wrote down those other two points on that list. They're based on what the people themselves are saying about your choices. But before I get into all that, I wanna state again that the North's had enough of Southern matters. Things were bad enough when Ned Stark lost his head, but after the Red Wedding? They've taken all the abuse they can endure. The only reason they haven't declared themselves independent again is because the Lannister's made the traitorous Bolton's the Warden's of the North and the Bolton's are ruling them through fear. Were it not for them and there's no Stark trying to band the country together to take it back, the North would break away from the Seven Kingdoms without a second thought. They don't want to bend the knee to another Southern ruler. They'd rather go to war and risk being burned alive by your dragons than give you a fair chance."

No one said anything for the longest time. Daenerys exchanged blank looks with her Essosi advisors, but Ser Barristan scrubbed his forehead apprehensively as he stared at the table. Everything he'd revealed was simply too much for them to immediately process.

"Torrhen," said the queen, slowly turning to him again. "I understand why after that Red Wedding ordeal it would be… _difficult_ for Northerners to trust others. I… I cannot fathom how there can be people out there who would even plot to do such a vile thing, but I swear to you that I would _never_ do anything of that nature to others. When the time comes for me to finally set sail for Westeros, I will do whatever it takes to earn the North's loyalty and trust. I will prove to them that I am nothing like the Lannister's, Frey's, or Bolton's."

He sighed. "You don't get it, do you? You… You think I'm over exaggerating, don't you?"

"Torrhen—"

"Fine, don't believe me. Watch and see what happens when you try appealing to the North. But please think about forgiving Ser Jorah. At the very least, he can help paint some of your actions here in Essos in a better light than what they hear in passing."

"Pardon me?"

"Everything you do here in Essos, your grace, people in Westeros find out about eventually, and right now, they don't know what side your Targaryen coin flip has landed on. Some say greatness, some think madness. If you keep acting like a tyrant here in Meereen, they'll side with the Lannister's to drive you off."

Daario let out a humorous snort. "All right, this has gone on long enough. Time to shut up, little prince. Let the adults take over again."

"Don't call me—!"

"Queen no tyrant!" Grey Worm barked, temper flaring. "She good and just!"

"Then why did she execute that freedman without a fair trial? Why is she destroying the history and culture of the people of Meereen? And what about—"

"Stop right there," Ser Barristan cut in, now studying him carefully. "I believe I speak for everyone when I say I have no idea what you're talking about when you say her grace is destroying the history and culture of the city, but the execution you mention… are you referring to the execution in the public square?"

"Aye, that's right." He folded his arms and turned back to Daenerys. "The people hated you for that."

"I'm well aware I made a mistake that day," she countered, raising her chin. "I should have executed Mossador in the privacy of the pyramid rather than in front of the whole city."

Torrhen shook his head. "The execution itself wasn't the problem, your grace. It was how you passed judgment over that man that made the people angry."

"What makes you say that?" Missandei asked. "I mean… her grace spoke to the people entirely in High Valyrian when that happened, so how do you…?"

"Someone in the crowd translated for me. That's not important. The point is, I was in the crowd that day, so I know what they were thinking. They didn't like that you were the only one allowed to pass judgment over him."

"What? But I am the queen. It was within my right to do that."

"Yet you told everyone the reason he was sentenced to death was because he killed someone else. Someone awaiting trial, I think?"

She nodded. "We had found and captured a suspected Harpy. Mossador killed him even though I had decided to give that man a fair trial before passing any judgment."

"And there you go. You were willing to give a suspected _Harpy_ a trial, but not a freedman."

Daenerys tensed, as did the rest of her small council. For a moment, Torrhen thought he'd made a definite impact on his future mother regarding that fact, but his inner confidence quickly faded away when he realized that no one seemed particularly moved by uncertainty of that decision. They'd all been caught off guard by what he'd said, but that was it.

"Torrhen… I didn't hold a trial for Mossador because there was no need for one. He confessed to killing that prisoner when I asked."

The boy blinked, jerking a bit. "He did?"

"Yes, he did. It was entirely within my rights to have him executed for that."

He glanced down at the tabletop top, silently considering that detail. "I guess that's true… but even so, no one in the crowd knew that. They only knew what you told them, so they all thought you didn't want to show him mercy."

Daario snorted again. "Bullshit."

"What? I'm not lying!"

"I actually don't think you're lying this time, Prince Snow. More like mixing your ideals with what you want to see change."

Torrhen was too caught off guard to get angry about the 'prince' tease this time, and only stared at Daario in obvious confusion. Everyone there mirrored his puzzlement.

"What exactly are you implying, Captain Naharis?"

Daario grinned, leaning back even further in his seat as he took a long swig of his wine. With his boots still kicked back on the table, he looked so smug and relaxed. "Exactly as I said, oh great knight. Your squire here is naive on how the world really works. It doesn't matter whether or not our queen didn't give the people all the facts that day. Those people rioted because too much happened too fast. A year ago, there were masters and slaves. Now there's former masters and freedmen. The masters don't like that, so they create the Sons of the Harpy. Harpies kill everyone to cause trouble for our queen. Then she did one thing neither side liked, and the people snapped. It's as simple as that." He glanced over to Daenerys, his lips taking on an unusual curl in Torrhen's eyes as he appraised her. "You know I'm right, my queen."

To Torrhen's dismay, she nodded in agreement. "Yes, thank you, Daario. I'll admit you make some good points, Torrhen, but in this instance I'm inclined to agree with Captain Naharis. I'm sorry if the way I handled Mossador's execution seemed like a merciless act, but the people would have become angry regardless."

He couldn't believe his own ears. "And that's fine, to you? You don't care if you don't have your peoples full support anymore?"

"Of course I do, but in regard of this particular matter, no. The people needed to see that justice was dealt out accordingly and that neither rich nor poor are exempt from the law."

It was like talking to a wall, how immovable she was. What did one have to do to make her change her mind? If anything, his future mother was already well set in her path to become the Mad Queen and didn't want to hear advice on how to change her ways. He was wasting his time.

Huffing in annoyance, Torrhen slid back his chair and got to his feet. "If that so pleases you, your grace. You'd think differently if you actually went out there yourself and heard what the people are saying. Have a good day." He sullenly bowed and whistled for Shadow to follow him as he marched to the door. His wolf yawned, stretched, and started trotting along behind him when Ser Barristan swiftly stood.

"Torrhen, we have not yet concluded this meeting. Sit back down."

"What's the point? She doesn't want to listen to me."

"Torrhen—"

"I'm telling her grace all this because I _want_ her to be a good queen. If she doesn't care to listen to what I know is true just because I'm not a grown up, then there's no point asking about that stupid statue or that rumor I heard. I'll take my punishment now for being rude and go back to my solar."

He'd nearly reached the entryway when there was the scrape of a second chair being pushed back. "Halt please, Torrhen." He stopped as she requested, though didn't turn around. "I am sorry if I don't fully agree with everything you're telling us. I don't mean to offend you, but I must think about the overall situation of the city and do what I believe is right for fixing things."

"Hmph, lot of good that's done you…"

" _Torrhen."_

"No, no, Ser Barristan. It's fine. He is technically right, after all." Smiling politely, she continued. "I promised I would hear you out fully about everything you wished to speak to me about, didn't I? I never said I'd follow your advice regarding each matter, but I am listening to what you have to say. Now, would you please rejoin us all here at the table? What statue and rumor are you talking about?"

He huffed. Folding his arms, he turned to face everyone again. "The statue relates to what I said about you destroying the culture and history of Meereen. You're acting like a tyrant with how you're trying to erase it all."

"Erase it all? What do you mean?"

"Exactly as I said, Lady Missandei. Wiping it out. Destroying it. Making it so everyone in Meereen knows the past is gone and will never come back."

Grey Worm furrowed his brows. "Queen destroy slavery. You mean that?"

"No, not ending slavery. Slavery's horrible and if she wants to end that practice, I fully support her. I meant how she's using her power to wipe out other cultural and historic symbols to the Meereenese people. I told you how important it is for Northerners to remember our traditions and past, so I understand and agree with them that she's acting like a tyrant."

Ser Barristan blinked before exchanging a confused look with Daenerys. "Torrhen, I know you're struggling to accept everything I say because of your short temper, but I give you my word as Lord Commander of her Queensguard that her grace has always done her best to act justly in her rule. She'd never deliberately—"

"Forgive me, Ser Barristan, but in this instance, you're wrong. The queen _has_ been doing this, even if she hasn't realized it."

"In what way?"

"For starters, I hate to say this because I know it's terrible, but Lord Hizdahr is right about reopening the fighting pits. You need to do so. As soon as possible."

Daenerys jerked, eyes bulging for a half-second before blazing with rage. "No."

"Your grace—"

"I will _not_ reopen them. The fighting pits were created to force slaves to slaughter each other for the amusement of the masters. A boy younger than you who never so much as held a sword before could be pitted against a man three times his age. And the people watching would _cheer._ Does that sound right to you, Torrhen? Does it sound right that people should die for barbaric entertainment?"

Torrhen grimaced. His future mother certainly had a way with words. "Of course it doesn't sound right, your grace! Personally, I agree with you on what a horrible sport it is! But as a Northerner, I also understand Lord Hizdahr when he says that it's part of their culture and history. If both the nobles and the freedmen want to see you reopen them, then you're just fanning the flame for the Harpies to keep attacking people."

"If Harpies try attacking again, Unsullied kill them," Grey Worm declared, straightening with resolve. "We kill any who oppose our queen."

Daario nodded. "That goes double for the Second Sons. We are loyal to the Mother of Dragons."

The boy scoffed. "If you were truly loyal, you'd have brought me straight to her grace when I first came here."

"Prince Snow—"

"I'm _not_ a prince! But whatever, that's not the point. What I mean, your grace, is that if you keep doing what you've been doing here in Meereen, it's going to be used as the excuse to reject you when you finally cross the Narrow Sea. And I don't just mean the North, I mean _all_ the Seven Kingdoms."

Daenerys sighed. "Torrhen, I told you, I am not trying to be a tyrant."

"Whether you truly are or not doesn't matter. It's how people perceive your choices that does. Right now, you've got the whole city against you because of that execution, and you're angering everyone further by not reopening the fighting pits. Add in your other bad choices with destroying that statue and when you first came to Meereen, and it's gonna be easy for the Lannister's to rally the lords of Westeros to stand against you."

"What are you talking about? What statue?"

"The Great Harpy Statue, the one that fell off the pyramid in the earthquake. People in the city hate that you melted it down instead of restoring it. Frankly, I agree with them that you were actively stripping Meereen of its cultural symbol when you did that."

Aside from Hizdahr who stiffly pressed his lips together, the adults all stared at him incredulously. One by one, they all slowly glanced back over at Daenerys. She gaped back at them, eyes wide like saucers. She thickly swallowed before focusing back to him. "Torrhen… I admit I had that statue melted down, but I did not do so for the reason you accuse me of."

Torrhen raised a brow. "Right, of course not… then explain why Lord Hizdahr looks so upset, your grace. He's Meereenese, after all. Have you asked him what he thought about you doing that?"

Daenerys paused. She slowly looked over to Hizdahr, but Hizdahr didn't meet her eyes. He just stared out the open balcony archway at the view of the cityscape as he sighed. "Practically speaking, I know why you did that, your grace. Had I been in the city at the time, I might have suggested doing the same with some of the other fallen statues. However… I wish you hadn't done so to that particular statue. At the very least, you should have had the Unsullied explain to the people why you ordered them to bring it to the forge."

"The Unsullied were working nonstop day and night in the aftermaths the disaster, Hizdahr. Between clearing rubble, helping rebuild, and finding and escorting anyone buried alive in the debris to the sickhouses, every second counted. I needed them to continue those tasks as soon as possible."

"Then perhaps you should have made a public address about it, my queen. Had you done that, that would have cleared up the misconception."

"You saw how busy my court sessions were when you and Captain Naharis returned, Hizdahr. I had no time to do so."

"That may be true, but without a proper explanation to the people they didn't understand your motives for doing that. How were they to know that doing that brought them food and roofs over their heads?"

"Wait, what're you talking about?" Torrhen asked, annoyance fading slightly.

The queen sighed. "Torrhen, I had that statue melted down because Meereen was on the brink of collapse after the earthquake, but there wasn't enough gold to pay for everything. The city needed help, so that statue helped pay for the rebuilding costs. I was backed into a corner financially. It was either melt it down and have the gold used to bring in fresh supplies, or leave it there and let half the city die. What else should I have done?"

Torrhen fell silent, thinking hard. He didn't have a clear cut answer that question, and that just made the situation all the more complicated.

Daario sneered. "You get it now, right? The world isn't as clear cut and simple as you think it is. There's no easy choices in life."

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't try making the right choice when you can," he countered. "Doing the right thing isn't supposed to be easy. It's supposed to be what's right."

"That makes no sense."

"No, I'm sure it wouldn't. Someone with no morals like you probably persuaded her grace to murder all those people when she first came to this city!"

There was a collective round of head jerks and wordless gasps as everyone whipped around to stare at him.

" _Murders?!"_

"You cross line, boy!"

"The fuck you talking about, brat?!"

"Her grace has done no such thing!"

"Torrhen, you have gone too far! Apologize to her grace right now!"

"I will not, Ser Barristan. I will not apologize for stating what her decision to _crucify_ over a hundred and sixty-three noblemen was in my eyes! That was murder, plain and simple!"

It was so quiet, no one dared to even breathe loudly. Unlike the past few instances where his words made some impact but was brushed off after only a momentary delay, Torrhen could tell that no one could even think up a possible way to refute this claim. And sadly, his future mother didn't even deny this accusation. She just stared at him, eyes bulging while frozen in place. The sight of her like that only filled him with even more disgust. Wasn't she supposed to be trying to convince him he was wrong to judge her that way? That's what any other normal person would do in this scenario.

An eternity seemed to pass before she found her voice. "Torrhen… that situation was far more complicated than you believe it to be."

He scowled. "It doesn't seem that complicated to me. It's a yes or no question. Did you crucify those noblemen?"

"Torrhen—"

"Yes or no?"

"…Yes."

Torrhen stared at her for the longest time, face utterly blank, but then to everyone's surprise, he darkly chuckled. "Unbelievable. Unfucking believable… Well, that settles that, then…"

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's clear to me, your grace, that as much as it pains me to admit it, my relatives were partially right about you. You really are a madwoman."

"Torrhen, apologize to the queen. Right now."

"Why should I? No sane person would ever dream of crucifying even one person, let alone a hundred and sixty-three."

"Torrhen—"

"It's all right, Ser Barristan. He doesn't appear to know the full story, so it's understandable why he thinks that."

Torrhen raised a surprised brow at how easily his liege knight backed off at those words, and quickly focused his attention back to his future mother. "All right, I'm listening. What is the full story, then? What justifies the crucifixions of over a hundred people?"

"The crucifixions of a hundred and sixty-three children."

"Children? What?"

"Torrhen, please listen to her grace. She didn't decide to do that solely to be cruel. It was an act of justice."

"Missandei is correct. When traveling on the road to Meereen, I discovered that the masters of Meereen had crucified over a hundred and sixty-three children on the mile markers leasing to the city. They were trying to scare me off from approaching their city. I was horrified by their actions, but even so, I looked into the face of every single child and made sure to have them all properly buried before continuing our march. Tell me, what would you have done had you been in my shoes back then and discovered all those murdered children? Some were even younger than yourself, I might add."

Torrhen didn't respond. He simply pressed his lips together and stared at the table surface as he thought over this new information. In all their times reading through _The Song of Ice and Fire_ history book, he and Lyaella had never read about that. Not once had the crucifixions of all those children been mentioned in history. That certainly changed things, but even so…

"Were they _all_ to blame for those deaths?"

"What?"

"All the nobles you crucified as justice for those children. We're they _all_ responsible?"

There was another long pause. Aside from Hizdahr who suddenly became quite rigid as he turned to gaze out at the balcony, Daenerys' councilors all turned to her with rather pensive expressions. She didn't meet their eyes, though. If anything, her gaze kept flicking back and forth between Hizdahr and himself.

"No. Some were against those children's murders."

"Well, there you go. It's one thing to punish those who are truly guilty, but another to consider everyone the same by mere association. Take it from someone who knows, your grace. It's how Lya and I have been treated our whole lives, after all."

He stood up again, and to his relief no one commanded him to come back as he walked out. Hopefully his opinions on these matters were the eye openers the queen needed to get off this sure fire path to madness she was currently embracing. His future mother seemed like a genuinely nice person, but because everyone around her only told her things she wanted to hear, there was no one to advise her against some of her more ruthless base instincts. Tempering that side of her would have to be a top priority for him from now on. Otherwise history would be doomed to repeat itself all over again.

And that wasn't happening. He and Lyaella were going to grow up with their parents from now on. No matter what.


	15. The Return of Familiar Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the next chapter of Howl of the Dragonwolves! For all you Lyaella fans out there, I'm sorry to report that she has yet to make a reappearance. I know you all are anxious to see what happens next in her storyline, but we still have one last Torrhen-centric chapter before we can return to her and Jon at the Wall. Don't worry, she will definitely return in the next chapter! I promise! But for those of you who want to criticize me for not doing my usual two chapters with each of the twins before cutting back to the other, keep in mind that I made a point of stating in my author's note in Chapter Thirteen that we might have to stay with Torrhen for three chapters instead of the usual two count in order to keep the story on track. I gave you all fair warning that this might happen, so it shouldn't be much of a problem. Although… I have a distinct feeling that many of you will be screaming at me to NOT cut back to Lyaella in the next chapter considering what happens in this last Torrhen-centric chapter. No spoilers though as to what I mean! You must read and find out for yourself! ;D
> 
> Also, because I know that the upcoming Chapter Sixteen will NOT be out anytime soon since I have yet to writing the basic chapter outline, I will therefore be unable to have it out on November 30th, the first anniversary date of Howl of the Dragonwolves. So, consider today's release on November 22nd 2020 to be an early first anniversary release for all of you readers! I know most of you are annoyed by the slow progress I'm making with getting through Season 5 alone, but I swear that we'll move on to Season 6 soon. There's only a few more chapters until we finally get to Hardhome/Harpy Ambush in the Fighting Pits. When those two major battles are over, it won't be long until Season Six finally begins!
> 
> Sadly, I still haven't had much luck in finding a job. Not even when applying for local part-time positions in my area just for daily money can I find work! I don't know what I'm doing wrong, but it seems like no one wants to hire me… *Sighs* I wish I could get any job at this point. I need to start making money! T.T
> 
> Once again, I'd like to thank my pals Longclaw and WrathofAvarice for their help with this chapter. They both helped me out in terms of writing roadblocks and even with minor editing for the opening scene, which I was struggling to trim down on my own. Thank you! :)
> 
> One last note before I move on to the review count. I know I said back in my last author note that I wasn't planning to go back and edit previous chapters for modern terminology that I forgot to edit out, but due to how I wrote something in this chapter, I WILL be going back to edit out one particular modern term in Chapter Twelve after posting this chapter here and on FF. No spoilers as to what it is! You'll understand after reading this chapter and then rereading that one. Don't worry, it won't be a major change in terms of changing the storyline itself in that chapter. I just need to change a modern term into a more time period-accurate word that's used repeatedly by the characters in that chapter.
> 
> Now, onto the story stats! We got 586 kudos, 143 bookmarks, 20990 views, and 411 comments! Woohoo! We totally dominated the comment goal of 370! Great job, everyone! Great job!
> 
> For the new comment goal… hmm… I think we should try striving for 460 this time. That's 49 reviews I'm asking for, and since you guys managed to get out an additional 41 reviews over the comment goal with the last chapter, I think you guys can do it! Go for it, everyone! Tell yourselves that you can do it, and you can! Remember, reviews tell me that people like reading this story, which in return keeps me inspired to keep writing. More reviews - More writing from me! Lol!
> 
> I think that's just about everything I planned to say, so I'll be off now! Please, enjoy this next chapter and leave a nice review on it when you're done!
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> \- Elphaba818

  
"Come now, sweetlings. Don't be like that."

They huffed at her, smoke billowing from their nostrils.

"Please, try for me. For your mother."

The white one blinked twice. The green one snorted, rumbling softly.

"Viserion, Rhaegal, listen to me. You need to try. That's all I'm asking."

Her dragons just glared at her before turning away, disappearing into the darkness.

"No, my sons! Come back!"

They didn't so much as flinch. They just continued deeper into the catacombs, their chains jingling behind them.

She sighed. Her sons were stubborn creatures. She always believed Drogon was the unruliest between the three, but Viserion and Rhaegal had their own streaks deep down. They just never let it show until now.

Shaking her head, Dany dejectedly strolled back to the stairs, where a squad of Unsullied guards stood protectively around the small boy sitting on the bottom step. "You promised you'd help me, did you not, Torrhen? Your advice makes no sense."

Torrhen didn't glance up from the sheets of parchment sprawled out across his lap, each one containing various notes written for him by Missandei. "I told you what I know. I can't help it if you don't understand."

"Yes, you can. I can tell you are not fully invested in assisting me."

"I told you, I'm not going to bond with your dragons. I won't go closer to help."

"Yet you consider me your queen, do you not? Well, as your queen, I order you to put away Missandei's notes and tell me what I'm doing wrong training my children."

"Me reading through these notes is my way of trying to help, your grace. I asked Lady Missandei to write down basic commands in High Valyrian. I think that's part of your problem."

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

He finally looked up at her, his expression rigid yet fierce. "You talk to them in a mix of Valyrian and the Common Tongue. Aside from her own name, me and Lyaella only taught Sōnar one command in High Valyrian — dracarys. Anything else we tell her, we tell her in the Common Tongue because that's the only command we know. If your dragons know both languages, that might be why they're not listening. No promises, though."

"This was your idea, Torrhen. If you can't explain how you and your sister supposedly trained your dragon, I'm inclined to believe this Sōnar doesn't really exist."

Ice filled his eyes. "I've told you, your dragons are not Sōnar. They're not the same as her. They're yours. If you're their mother then you should know how to handle them."

"Handle them how?"

"How should I know that? They're not my dragons. Be their mother and learn for yourself."

"Learn what?"

"I just told you, I don't know. You should know that already."

Dany closed her eyes, doing her best to rein in her frustration. Torrhen's suggestion for her to train her sons was a valid one, but her patience was running thin by the little he told her regarding how. He demanded she trained her dragons, yet didn't give basic instructions on what to do. She'd been easy going with his bad behavior until now since he was under Ser Barristan's wing and it was his job to discipline his squire. That was obviously a mistake, though. It was time she started enforcing the rules around this boy so he knew to treat her respectfully.

"Torrhen, this behavior of yours stops now. I understand you don't think highly of some of my choices here in Essos. That's fine, you're entitled to your opinion, but just because you're mad doesn't give you the right to be sullen and vague in your instructions on how I can train Viserion and Rhaegal. If I'm to train them, you need to tell me how."

He scowled, shoving Missandei's notes back into his tunic and stood up. "I've told you what to do, your grace. It's not my fault you're not doing it right."

"Then explain better, or show me what I'm doing wrong."

"No, I won't make a bond!"

"Torrhen—"

"I told you, be their mother! Do whatever mother's do! Talk to them in the Common Tongue or High Valyrian! If you really wanted to do it, you could! Don't blame me for your problem!"

Without another word, he spun around and stomped up to the exit, not even halfway there before mumbling curses and swears under his breath. He'd likely go the rest of the day without another word to her. Aside from when she brought him down here to help her train her children like he promised, Torrhen now refused to speak to her whatsoever. Ever since the small council meeting he'd been giving her the cold shoulder, and despite how Ser Barristan and Missandei pleaded with him to look past the horrible things he'd accused her of, he stubbornly refused to move past it.

It was beyond disrespectful. Part of Dany wanted to order her Unsullied to drag the boy back here and force him to apologize… but it wasn't her place. Until she knew for certain whether he truly was related to her, there was only so much she could do when disciplining Ser Barristan's ill-tempered squire. It was the knight's duty to punish him. Once she had real, unquestionable proof that Torrhen truly was of Targaryen descent, she would step up more when he crossed the line. But for now she had to be patient. The truth would be revealed soon enough and she would deal with it then.

And besides, his words kept ringing in her head. She could admit — at least to herself — that she was doubtful that training her sons would amount to anything. Was the fact she didn't believe this would change anything the reason why her dragons wouldn't listen? Did her children sense her own self-doubt?

Shaking her head, she quietly ordered her guards to follow and climbed up the steps behind Torrhen. Whether or not that was why she was struggling with this she didn't know, but if it was, she couldn't deal with it today. There were too many important things to take care of in the city, and as queen, they had to take priority.

It was a good thing they left when they did, though. Upon the Unsullied sealing the entrance, she saw Hizdahr strolling towards them. "Your grace, I hadn't realized you were out here. I've been searching all over for you."

"Is something wrong? Has there been another attack?"

"Not at all. I simply received word from the fighting pens. They're pleased by your change of heart and invite you to tour them today."

It took every bit of willpower she had to school her features. "Ah, I see. Well, it wouldn't be right to keep them waiting, I suppose."

"You'll go, your grace?"

"Yes. Torrhen, please run ahead and find Ser Barristan, Missandei, and Captain Naharis. Tell them I'll meet them at the main entrance and we'll all depart together."

The boy stiffly nodded. Bowing politely, he shot off without a word.

Hizdahr frowned. "He still won't speak to you, my queen?"

Dany nodded. "Indeed. Only when with my dragons does he say anything to me, and never more than strictly necessary."

He shook his head, baffled. "Strange boy, your grace. I've never met a child quite like him… Still, as ill-mannered as he is, I don't deny he has a natural mind for politics. I'm glad his words convinced you to change your mind about the fighting pits."

She mutely nodded, not daring to speak. It sickened her to her very core, but she had finally given in to Hizdahr's wise words about tradition and the culture of Meereen by reopening the fighting pits. If there was one thing she could admit was true Torrhen about what said during the small council session, it was the pits needed to be reopened. Peace needed to return to Meereen, and if the fighters in the rings would be freedmen choosing to fight rather than being forced to… it was sadly acceptable. If both sides of Meereen wanted it and were all right with that stipulation, then Torrhen was right about how she was only ostracizing herself from the support of the people. It wasn't an easy choice, but it was the smartest one and what was best for the city.

Murmuring a quiet command in Valyrian to the Unsullied, they marched in unison around them as they walked on. "I won't deny I'm still privately against pit fighting, Lord Hizdahr, but why do you say Torrhen has a mind for politics? One good suggestion does not constitute a clear insight into his talents."

Hizdahr chuckled, though quickly stopped when he saw her fierce glare. "Forgive me, your grace, but I'm surprised you haven't had your soldiers go out on the streets to verify his claims."

She frowned. "His claims?"

"What he spoke of during the small council session. Why haven't you had some of your soldiers listen to what the people are saying, to find out if what he said about what the people think about your choices in the city are true ?"

Dany slowly blinked. It took her several moments to collect her thoughts and think up a reply. "Have you done so? Have you had your servants listening to the people in the city?"

"Not many. Just passing whispers they hear whilst in the market or port."

"And?"

He frowned. "And either way I answer, be it the truth or lie, you won't care nor believe me. You'll presume me to be lying."

Her eyes grew harsh. "You speak boldly, Hizdahr zo Loraq. Do you believe that to be wise?"

"I believe it to be fair, your grace. I won't deny that how my father died was horrible, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't still harbor resentment towards you, but I can see you're trying to be a good queen. The problem is that no one other than that boy has ever dared challenge your perspective before that you're not used to constructive criticism."

"Constructive criticism?" she mused.

"Some of his ideas are indeed unrealistic, your grace, and he may have wrong ideas on some of your choices, but still… he has a unique perspective on things. He made quite a few well-reasoned arguments, at least. I couldn't do that at his age. It took me years to learn how to think ahead and argue for my point of view like that."

She considered this for awhile before nodding. "I can't deny that. His arguments were rather surprising for a boy his age."

"He has a temper, your grace, one he must learn to keep in check if he's to survive in this world, but I stand by my opinion. He has the insight to become an exceptional politician one day, and if he is telling the truth about being of your House… well, permission to state my opinion, my queen?"

"Certainly."

"If you legitimized him, then you'd have an official heir. I mean no disrespect to any potential children you might one day have, your grace. If and when you do marry to produce a true heir in Westeros, they of course would take priority over Torrhen. I only mean hypothetically if you never make it to Westeros, your people would still have someone to push your House's claim. I know what a mess the line of succession is across the sea right now. If you teach him to control his temper, he has the makings to be a smart king. Better than the false King Joffrey, in any case."

She nodded lightly at the comparison, for as little information as they were able to gather about the current state of Westeros, even they were aware of the Lannister bastards' lust for cruelty. Torrhen Snow was young and immature with a terrible temper, but there was nothing about that boy that suggested he was cruel or dangerous… except for maybe that direwolf of his, but only when it was trying to protect its master or further expressing Torrhen's anger. Most of the time the wolf appeared tame and gentle. Still, she wouldn't be dropping her guard around that beast just yet. She rather enjoyed having all her fingers.

"I won't deny I've been thinking that myself, Hizdahr. Still, I first must know whether he is truly an illegitimate Targaryen child, and I need to know more about his character. My family lost the Iron Throne to our long history of madness and insanity, and Torrhen has a temper to him."

"I'm sure that's just childish immaturity, your grace. Nothing worth worrying about, at least not to that extent."

She merely smiled politely in return, spared from answering by the fact they had arrived at the main entrance. Missandei and Daario were already waiting for them, as were a number of the Second Sons and a handful more Unsullied. Ser Barristan and Torrhen however were nowhere to be found. Upon inquiring about their whereabouts, Daario snorted.

"The knight's making him saddle up both their horses. Says doing it for himself builds character, or something …"

Forcing a murmured thank you to the sellsword for the explanation, Dany nodded politely to Hizdahr for his counsel and moved to wait near Missandei, too irritated by Daario to continue the discussion while he was there. Thankfully, her friend seemed to guess the source of her annoyance with only a single look, and waited until the Unsullied formed a unit of protection around them before turning to her.

"Which one is annoying you, your grace?" She whispered in Dothraki. It was the perfect language for them to use right now, as neither man spoke it. "Lord Hizdahr or Captain Naharis?"

Dany sighed. "Both really, though more Daario this time than Hizdahr."

"Truly? I'd have thought it'd be the other way around."

"I know, it surprises even me. But believe it or not, Hizdahr was actually providing me with surprisingly insightful counsel this time. It was only the last bit I didn't like."

"What was it, your grace?"

Still speaking in Dothraki, Dany loosely explained her time with Torrhen in the catacombs followed by her short conversation with the Meerenese councilor. No one even glanced twice at them. They were used to the pair weaving between languages as they spoke. Missandei was an attentive listener, but upon hearing her explanation at the very end, she blinked repeatedly. "Do you fear Torrhen could be mad, your grace? Truly?"

She shook her head. "No, no. I don't believe he's mad… more like at risk of possibly going mad one day."

"Because of his temper?"

Dany sadly nodded. "If his behavior is just childish immaturity, that's fine. All children have those stages they go through. But if it's not just a phase…" she sighed, her expression quite fixed and rigid. "I don't know… I could never harm a child, but my brother Viserys was also an angry boy who grew up without any discipline. He descended into madness because no one ever kept him in check…"

Missandei nodded, turning away slightly to muse over the predicament. "I don't believe he could turn out that way, your grace, though I understand why you think so. But from what you've told me about your late brother, there's still two key differences between him and Torrhen."

"Oh?"

"You told me yourself that he often struck you, your grace, and that he took great pleasure in reminding everyone he was the rightful heir. Torrhen might share his anger, but I've heard no one mention him possibly losing his temper enough to outright attack someone. He doesn't want to be called a prince and he's angered by the very notion of being called royalty. I doubt he'd be any happier if all of us decided to turn from you to support him as king."

A small smile cracked at those words. "True. Very, true. Thank you, Missandei."

"Of course, your grace."

Torrhen and Ser Barristan arrived a few minutes later, already riding their horses as they lead a few more soldiers bringing additional horses over for herself, Missandei, Hizdahr, and Daario. Torrhen barely even glanced at any of them as he hopped down from the saddle to beckon Shadow to hurry along, as he'd been trotting along tiredly behind the procession. The poor wolf was panting heavily from the intense heat of the sun today, dropping down onto all fours as soon as he reached his young master. Aside from passing Torrhen an extra water skin from the pockets of his saddle bag, Ser Barristan smiled kindly to all of them as he dismounted and bowed in greeting. "My apologies for our tardiness, your grace. I haven't yet gone over with Torrhen how to fully saddle and prepare my horse whilst heading out in the city. But my squire surprised me by already knowing everything there is to know about saddling up horses and beginners riding."

"Oh?" She said, glancing to Torrhen curiously. "You've been taught about horses?"

Fetching a small tin water dish from his own saddle bag, Torrhen shot her an ugly look. Pouring some water in it, he set it down before his friend. Shadow darted towards it, eagerly lapping it all down. With his wolf refreshed, the boy focused on her again to give a noncommittal shrug and wordless grunt.

Ser Barristan frowned. "Torrhen, you said you wouldn't ignore the queen today."

He glowered at his mentor. "I didn't ignore the queen, ser. I acknowledged her, didn't I?"

"Torrhen…"

"You said before it was dishonorable and disrespectful to speak to the queen the way I did at the small council meeting. I'm not talking to her like that now, am I?"

"No, but you are still being disrespectful. Come here and answer her grace properly."

He fumed. Clenching his fists, he stomped forward and made an exaggerated, mocking bow. "My sincere apologies, Queen Daenerys," he spat, glaring at her shoes the entire time. "Yes, I know how to ride. Me and Lyaella both learned."

Dany's eyes narrowed, temper flaring. "I have been exceedingly patient towards you, Torrhen. I have put up with your course language and temper, but that was in the privacy of the Great Pyramid. We are going out into the city today. You will treat me with respect at all times if you wish to stay in my court. Is that clear?"

The boy tensed, pressing his lips into a thin line. Finally he sighed and forced a nod. "Aye," he mumbled.

It was so odd, how easily he backed down like that. It reminded her of his pouting when she chastised him during their first meeting in the council chambers. It was like he was sulking from being reprimanded by his mother…

She nearly swallowed at the thought, but caught herself at the last moment before turning to her followers. "Let's be off, then. It would not be wise to be late."

Nodding, her knight and his squire remounted their horses as her other advisors climbed on top their own. A few minutes later the Unsullied and Second Sons were in formation, and at last they set off through the city. Aside from a few passing remarks Hizdahr made throughout the course of the journey regarding the history of the fighting pits, everyone was relatively quiet to Dany's gratitude. Outwardly, she appeared to be everything people expected when they imagined her as a regal, powerful queen to those they passed. Inside, her mind was a whirlwind of repressed emotions and memories.

Rhaego… Her precious little prince… Why couldn't he be here right now? She would never have allowed him to grow up as ill-mannered and short tempered as Torrhen had…

She tightened her grip on the reins and sat up straighter in the saddle. No, don't think about that. Don't remember it. If she looked back, she would be lost…

Upon arriving at the fighting pens, they were greeted by a former master and escorted to a designated viewing box set up specifically for her arrival. With a colorful tarp hanging overhead, a low side table with a bowl of fresh fruit, and a cushioned seat for her to sit and watch the proceedings, it was clear the former masters were trying to show their appreciation and be welcoming towards her. But Dany couldn't help the involuntary grimace that shot across her face as she slowly sank into the chair.

She waited until their escort scurried off to the fighting pens to inform the fighters of their arrival before turning to Hizdahr. "I thought the Great Games were supposed to be the main spectacle. Will I be watching countless men die before then?"

"It is tradition for Meereen's ruler to tour the lower pits and pay respect to the fighters there in the time leading up to the Great Games," he explained. "The fighters consider your presence a tremendous honor, your grace."

She only nodded in return, not trusting herself to reply appropriately. There was nothing worth honoring in this gruesome affair. This was human slaughter in the highest degree, and every principle in her body was screaming it was wrong.

Dany waited until she was certain Missandei was also settled and Daario, Ser Barristan, and Torrhen had all found appropriate positions to stand and keep guard whilst attending to her before signaling the watchmen to bring forward the fighters. If she had to pay her respects as the queen of Meereen, better to get this over and done with as quickly as possible. With any luck, they'd be able to leave within an hour. Two at the most.

The pit fighters emerged from the fighting pen a few minutes later, all of them being hurried along by a wealthy former master in relatively expensive silks. Clearly the one in charge of these fighters, but by no means the wealthiest former master in all the city. Even Hizdahr's silks and overall presence showed he was richer than him.

Still, the former master didn't even notice them at first. He was too busy ushering out the fighters from the pens. "Come, come! Move yourselves! Today's the — oh!" he cried, now noticing her and her retinue. He rushed forward, politely bowing. "Your grace, thank you for coming. You honor us with your visit."

Dany barely had a chance to even nod in return before he hurried back to the fighters, hissing loudly to stand up straighter and bow in respect. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, wishing more than anything to march forward and smack him for how he manhandled one man to puff out his chest a bit more. She had a sinking suspicion this so-called former master wasn't actually a former master, but more like a master who ignored her decree ending slavery and continued the trade in secret. She'd have to remember to order Daario to have a few of his Second Sons discretely follow him when they were done here. If he really was a master still engaging in the slave trade, she'd have to make an example out of him.

When he was at last satisfied with their presentation, he clapped once, and the fighters jolted to attention. "We fight for your glory and die in your name, oh glorious queen," they chanted in unison.

She stiffly nodded in return. They shouldn't be calling her glorious, not when she was willingly allowing them to die for sake of peace.

A moment later, their escort banged a drumstick against a gong. And with loud metallic ringing the fighting commenced. The fighters drew their weapons and launched themselves at one another, bloodlust running rampant in their eyes. Dany sucked in a breath as one particularly muscled fighter managed to knock a younger man's knife out of his hands and forced him to his knees. Her stomach churned as his arakh neatly sliced the warrior's throat, blood gushing everywhere as he fell to the ground.

Hizdahr seemed to notice her discomfort, and quietly stepped forward. "I can see this upsets you, your grace, but it's tradition for our ruler to stay and congratulate the victor personally," he whispered.

"Congratulate?! I'm to smile and express my joy at the winner?!" She hissed.

"It is customary for the Great Games. Please…"

"I've already sacrificed my principles by allowing this to happen. What more must I—?!"

"Torrhen—! Oh, dear… sit down, lad. Sit down, head between your knees."

Dany turned. Ser Barristan was assisting his squire to slow sit down on the edge of the platform off to the side. He had to, as Torrhen was paler than usual and swaying lightly from side to side, his eyes bulging as they stayed fixed on all the bloodshed happening in front of him.

Missandei swiftly hurried towards them to assess his condition, but Daario snickered. "Well, well, seems the little prince's got a weak stomach. Can't handle a few nosebleed fights?"

Torrhen groaned, not bothering to look up. "S-Shut up…"

"Are you all right?" asked Missandei, slowly tilting up the boy's head to look him over. "Do you feel sick?"

"A little dizzy… I do feel a bit better, now…"

"I could fetch a pitcher of water, if you like."

"No, I-I-I can get it… I can walk…"

"Are you sure, Torrhen?" Dany asked, concerned. "There's no harm in having Missandei get some if you're not feeling well."

He rubbed his temples before wordlessly shaking his head, not even turning to her as he did so. Even when he wasn't feeling well, he hadn't forgotten his anger. Torrhen slowly rose back up and looked up at his mentor. "Can I go and get some water, Ser Barristan? I'll bring back more for the queen, too."

"Are you sure you're alright to walk around?"

"Aye, I'm fine."

"Very well, then."

"Thank you, ser."

Clicking his tongue to get his wolf's attention, Torrhen slowly hopped down from the platform, leaning up against Shadow for support as he trudged off towards the fighting pens to find a well.

"Wait, Torrhen, you forgot to bow," Ser Barristan called after him.

He paused right where he was, fingers clenching tightly through Shadow's black fur. He slowly turned back around, but stared pointedly at his feet as he forced a bow. Luckily, he kept his mouth shut this time and made sure to cling onto his wolf as he helped himself back up, setting off again without a word.

Ser Barristan sighed. "I apologize, my queen."

"It's all right, he didn't insult me this time. It's a start, if nothing else."

The knight didn't look entirely pleased. Dany turned to look back out at the rest of the fighters, but between her overall disgust at all the needless bloodshed and her thoughts still swirling around a certain young boy, it was all but impossible to stay focused on the pit fighters. Torrhen Snow… she had never met a little boy quite like him before. Despite his foul mouth, temper, and lack of manners, he still had a limit to how far he went. He never physically attacked anyone in a moment of rage, which still made him better than Viserys. And there were times he could be rather cynical and uncannily direct, but there was still a vulnerability to him, one she couldn't really explain. When Ser Barristan told her all about his private conversation with the boy in his solar regarding what his life with his relatives was like, she'd been shocked. She'd seen for herself how he'd been when talking about his life back in the North, so she knew the knight hadn't been lying, but even so… what type of life had this little boy been forced to live? What suffering had he and his sister endured that made him push people away every time he spoke? He was rude and downright offensive sometimes with his choice of language, but he clearly knew what manners were. Whenever he wasn't angry, he remembered to act respectfully towards her and her small council members, the only exceptions being Daario, Grey Worm for reasons unknown, and now herself after the previous meeting. What caused him to snap so much and act so deplorably?

Then again, she supposed he made some good points. His attitude needed to change, there was no doubt about that, but perhaps it'd been a good thing that he told her what he thought about her past choices before it had. Granted, his idea about her hiring the Golden Company was completely infeasible and she disagreed entirely about what he thought about her execution of Mossador, she couldn't help but muse some more over his other criticisms. His Northern heritage gave him a unique perspective of Ser Jorah, and when thinking over what he said about that golden harpy statue, she could understand his point. Growing up on the run, things like customs or traditions had meant little to her. Viserys had hardly ever spoken of such matters when she asked about their House. He preferred telling her stories about their ancestors being fearsome dragonlords and uniting the realm through fire and blood. Had the rebellion never happened, what would life had been like for her in the Red Keep? Would she have grown up visiting the Sept of Baelor once a week for prayer? What did House Targaryen do when celebrating together?

She nearly sighed as she thought about it all, but a sudden scream from within the ring brought her back to the present, and she sucked in a breath as she watched a man be pinned to the ground by his opponent and stabbed cleanly through the hand by a sharp blade.

Dany stiffened, her mouth going dry. What Torrhen said about the former masters she'd had crucified… they were echoing through her head now in an endless cycle. Had she done the right thing that day? When she liberated the city, it seemed like the appropriate punishment. All those children she'd seen nailed to crosses and left to rot on the roadside had horrified her when she first saw it. Disgusted her in ways she'd never known. Like she told Torrhen, she had looked into each one of those little faces and whispered her apologies that she couldn't have come to liberate them sooner. She had her people stop no less than one hundred and sixty-three times during their march to Meereen to dig them all graves, and before they continued, she would gather whatever wildflowers she could find and lay them upon their burial mounds. Her only regret was that she hadn't known the children's names and couldn't have proper tombstones put up.

Was she sorry she had ordered the former masters to be crucified in the same manner upon liberating Meereen?

No, absolutely not.

Was she sorry though that she never took the time to learn which of the masters were directly responsible for the children's crucifixions?

…Yes, sadly yes.

It pained her to admit it, but Torrhen's cruel judgment of the matter had a fair point. She had never taken the time to find out which of the masters in particular were the ones who deliberately decided to murder all those children. She had judged them all upon arriving in the city and had simply order the Unsullied and Second Sons to round up exactly a hundred and sixty-three masters. Ser Barristan had politely pulled her aside and asked her to show the people mercy, but she had ignored his council and continued regardless. She hadn't regretted her decision until Hizdahr later visited her court.

When he explained how his father had personally been against the children's crucifixions and yet was one of the masters she'd crucified in return, she'd felt guilty. Whether that was true or not would forever remain a mystery because she hadn't tried to find out who had and hadn't been involved. It was a miracle the man was still willing to work with her to restore order to Meereen if it was true. Assuming he hadn't been lying when they met, what were the odds there had been others who were also against those children's deaths that had died? Moreover, what if she hadn't rounded up all those who were responsible for the crucifixions? Had she stopped and taken the time to find that out, perhaps Hizdahr's father would still be alive. Perhaps whoever was the mastermind behind the Sons of the Harpy wouldn't have had the chance to build up the terrorist group. Things could have been so much different…

She closed her eyes and sighed. Torrhen had been right in that regard. Why hadn't she stopped to find out who was and wasn't responsible for those innocent children? Why had she punished all of Meereen as a whole and not only those who were truly guilty? Why?

"Is everything all right, your grace?"

"Oh, yes, Missandei. I'm—"

A loud crash cut her off, followed by a great deal of shouting and clattering. The fighters still hacking away at each other in the ring all immediately stopped. Everyone dropped what they'd been doing and whipped around.

More furious shouting and clanging resounded. And it was coming directly from the fighting pens off on the side.

* * *

“Ugh… it’s hot. Too hot. I hate the heat…”

Red eyes blinked up at the boy, taking in his sweaty tunic and flushed cheeks as they trudged down the path. He tried nuzzling against him like he knew Torrhen liked, but Torrhen pointedly pushed him away, shaking his head with a tired sigh.

“No, no, Shadow. No nuzzling,” he groaned. “It’s too hot for that. You’re… You’re fur’s the last thing I wanna touch right now, boy. I can’t imagine how hot you must be right now. Remind me to sheer some fur off you later, all right? No reason we should both suffer in this heat…”

Shadow whined, desperately wanting the haircut now. Despite Torrhen’s protests, he sluggishly moved closer to his boy, wriggling his head under his boy’s arm for attention. Torrhen felt his headache throb just from touching Shadows’ fur, but he ignored it and set down the heavy jug to scratch him behind the ears. He was feverish, his head was pounding, and he was tired and crankier than usual from the scorching sun, but it didn’t matter. Shadow wanted attention. He couldn’t deny his friend that.

He knew he should head back to the viewing platform with the water, but surely they wouldn’t care if he lingered around for a minute, right? Between the heat and his disgust of the pit fighters mercilessly slaughtering one another, he’d been so nauseous and lightheaded he wasn’t sure whether he would thrown up or passed out first if he’d stayed back there.

Wiping away the sweat from his brow, Torrhen seized the water jug and moved into the shade of the fighting pen. “Ah, better. Much better,” he sighed. “The queen’s next decree should be outlawing the sun. I never knew I could be this hot. Why couldn’t I have stay back at the Great Pyramid? I’m not even doing… I should be writing down everything I can remember from mother’s and Lyaella’s songs onto new parchment, not scorching to death…”

Shadow made a small whimper of agreement, but before Torrhen could say anything further, his wolf ears suddenly perked up, head snapping around.

Torrhen blinked. “What’s up, bud? You hear something?”

Shadow ignored him. He stared intently at the back entrance of the fighting pen, black nose twitching as he sniffed the air. Torrhen didn’t have a clue as to what caught his attention, but it didn’t matter. They had to get back to the viewing platform before Ser Barristan or the queen sent someone looking for them.

Clicking his tongue to get his pal’s attention, Torrhen bent down to collect the pitcher, but froze when Shadow ignored him and bolted to the entryway.

“Shadow, no—! What’re you doing?!” Torrhen hissed. “Get back here!”

Shadow paid him no mind and vanished inside. Shouts of alarm erupted within less than a second.

Torrhen sighed. Dropping the water pitcher, he blew a loose curl out of his eyes and trudged after his friend. “They better not get mad at me for this. This is Shadow’s fault, not mine…”

He just entered the enclosure when he spied Shadow trying to squeeze past several fighters failing to block him from going further in. Many of the were shouting in rapid High Valyrian so didn’t understand. He’d have to keep reading through Missandei’s notes on the language diligently later. His future mother had been right about him needing to learn the language if he was to stay in Essos.

Seeing a handful of them unsheathing their blades made him rush forward. “Sorry! Terribly sorry about this!” He said quickly, raising his hands unthreateningly as he hurried to Shadow. “Didn’t mean to interrupt you all! Sorry! We’ll — We’ll be going now! Come on, Shadow!”

Torrhen whistled and tried steering him back out. Shadow only yipped and bit down on the hem of his tunic, dragging him further inside.

“Hey! Shadow — Shadow, stop that! What — What’re you—?!”

“A direwolf in Essos…? What in the world—?”

“Torrhen?! Is that you?!”

Torrhen froze. He knew those voices. The first sounded rather bewildered and belonged to a certain half-man he’d last met in his own timeline at the memorial feast. The other was of a Northern dialect, and he’d met only one Northerner since his arrival in the past.

He whipped around. Sitting on a bench a short ways off was none other than Jorah Mormont and Tyrion Lannister, both looking filthy and tired — not to mention much younger in Tyrion’s case — but there was no mistaking it. It was them.

Blinking repeatedly, Torrhen let go of Shadow and squeezed his way past the pit fighters. He needed to see them, talk to them. It was the only way he’d know he wasn’t hallucinating. Still, as surprised as he was by Tyrion’s appearance, the dwarf would have to wait. He _technically_ hadn’t met the dwarf of Casterly Rock yet in the past.

“Ser Jorah! I… I can’t believe it! What’re you doing here?!”

The knight shook his head, eyes wide as saucers. “No, that’s my question, lad. Why are you here? Were — Were you not able to meet the queen?! Did they capture you, too?!”

“Capture me? What—?”

“Oy, brat! Get outta here!”

“Beat it, boy! Or we’ll throw you in chains and carve up your mutt for lunch!”

Torrhen whirled back around. While most of the fighters were trying to stay out of the way to avoid Shadow’s fangs, a few of the braver warriors were still brandishing their blades as they inched closer. They kept one eye trained on him and his wolf, the other on the highborn spokesman who’d acted as the announcer out in the fighting ring.

Shadow growled, hackles rising as he crouched down. Torrhen glared at the closest swordsman, his fingers inching towards the pommel of his training sword.

“One, never threaten me or Shadow,” he snarled. “Only fucking fools poke a sleeping wolf! Two—”

“You calling us fools, boy?!”

“Little shit! I’ll teach you ‘bout running your mouth!”

 _“—what’s going on?!_ What’re you doing here, Ser Jorah? You said you were gonna find a way to get Queen Daenerys to forgive you, so why’re you here? And — And what d’you mean by, ‘did they capture me?’”

For all his so-called smarts, Tyrion Lannister looked completely puzzled. “Who is this boy, Mormont? Does he know the queen?”

Ser Jorah ignored their questions. Instead, he leapt to his feet, shoved Torrhen behind him, and snatched up a sword and helmet upon seeing the nobleman try to yank him away. “Why is this boy here?!” he demanded, jamming on the helmet as he held up the blade. “If you grabbed him and his wolf off the streets, you will answer to me!”

“We did nothing of the sort! He’s not ours!”

_“Then why is he here?!”_

“How should we know?! You’re the one stopping us from throwing him out!”

Then it hit Torrhen. He knew exactly what was going on. He hadn’t paid close attention to his future mother’s history as he had his future father’s, but now he remembered — this was the day Ser Jorah first tried appeasing his mother after she exiled him by capturing Tyrion Lannister. Sadly, she kept Tyrion as an advisor but dismissed the knight again.

This was it. This was his one and only chance to start seriously changing her future in regards to the North. If there was any hope at all in her dealing with the fucking Starks and Northern lords, it depended on her welcoming Ser Jorah back into her council now. Today. Not after the big sneak attack from the Harpies in the Great Games. Not after she took control of the Dothraki khalasar sometime next year. _Now._

“I’m here with Queen Daenerys, Ser Jorah!” He cried, grabbing hold of his arm. “She’s outside right now, watching the fighters!”

Ser Jorah jerked, as did Tyrion. Both their heads swiveled around, incredulous.

“The queen? She’s here? Now?”

“What? But — But then what’re you—?”

“Shadow dragged me in here. He must’ve smelled you, and I’m glad he did! Oy!” Torrhen snapped, turning to glare at the spectators. “What’s going on?! Do you know who this man is?!”

The nobleman snorted, amused. “He is my fighter, boy. He sold himself into slavery willingly. Who he was before doesn’t matter.”

“The queen outlawed slavery! She’ll have your head for this!”

“No, she won’t, because you won’t be telling her.” He jerked his head at his fighters. “Kill him. The wolf, too.”

The pit fighters pressed forward. Torrhen jumped, dragging Shadow closer as he fumbled for his training sword. His direwolf started snarling furiously at the advancers until Ser Jorah leapt forward, just barely blocking a swing of an arakh. Parrying another strike, he overpowered the man and knocked him to the ground with a firm kick to the knee.

“Torrhen, run! Now!” the knight ordered.

Torrhen wanted to ignore his order and whip out his training sword to help — he’d helped Ser Barristan during the riot, after all — but there were a fair share of fighters closing in on them right now. Ser Jorah needed help from experienced swordsmen rather than him. Ser Barristan was just outside, as was the queen. Daenerys needed to see Ser Jorah fighting to protect him. If she saw that, maybe she’d let his mentor help him. More importantly, he’d finally prove he’d not only met the Northern knight, but that Ser Jorah was still loyal to her and her claim to the Iron Throne.

He dashed to the exit leading out to the fighting ring. “S-Shadow, come on!”

An armored Lysene tried to block him off. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, whelp!”

He reached for his arm, but Shadow sprung forward, snarling wildly as he clamped down on his fingers. Torrhen didn’t stop even when the man yelped and tumbled backwards into a stack of heavy barrels. He just vaulted over his fallen form and bolted outside.

All the men slaughtering each other in the fighting ring froze as he and Shadow burst out. Daenerys and her entourage were equally alarmed. She scrambled to her feet, royal propriety completely forgotten. “What—?!”

“Torrhen!” Ser Barristan cut in, stepping forward. “What’s going on?! What were you—?!”

“Y-Your grace! Ser Barristan! You — You’ve gotta—!”

 _“Insolent boy! Get back here!”_ The nobleman slaver dashed out behind him, his whole face puffing a vivid shade of scarlet. Several other pit fighters followed, their weapons still in hand. The slaver didn’t even glance at them as he thrust his finger at Torrhen, nor did he notice the important figure on the viewing platform. “Seize him!”

His pit fighter slaves jerked. “Master—?!”

“B-But — But master—!”

“Skin that beast’s hide and bring him here! _Now!”_

The fighters bit their lips, but reluctantly ran towards Torrhen. Within seconds, Ser Barristan drew his sword and rushed to the platforms’ steps. Daario simply ignored them and leapt down while reaching for his arakh.

“What is going on?!”

“Torrhen! Get back!”

“These your slaves, good man? Well, you chose the wrong day to—”

_Clang!_

Daario cut himself off, blinking in surprise. Ser Barristan mirrored his expression while Daenerys, Hizdahr, and Missandei simply stared, all of them stunned. Despite his own shock, Torrhen couldn’t help but smile when he saw one pit fighters fall to the ground. He was out cold, courtesy of Ser Jorah.

“So long as I live, none of you shall harm the Dragon Prince!” he shouted, dashing to another would-be assailant.

Torrhen blinked. Dragon Prince? Was that how Ser Jorah saw him? Unlike Daario, he could tell the Ser Jorah was trying to show him respect with the title, but he’d have to tell him later not to call him that. He and Lyaella were not a prince or princess, nor would they ever become as such. They were just Torrhen and Lyaella Snow. Nothing more, nothing less.

Daario suddenly yanked the back of his tunic, dragging him roughly to the platform. “You stupid, boy?! Move it!”

Torrhen didn’t answer, but hastily nodded and whistled to Shadow to stay close. Ser Barristan ushered them up the platform steps, nodding appreciatively to Daario before checking Torrhen over for injuries. “Are you all right Torrhen?! What happened?!”

“I’m fine, ser, really! I — I didn’t mean for any of this to happen!”

“What were you doing in the fighting pens? We sent you for water!”

“And did I hear those men right? Did those fighters refer to than man over there as ‘master?’” asked Daenerys, her expression hard.

Torrhen nodded, his gaze wandering back to Ser Jorah as he defended himself from a man with a spear. “Aye, your grace. All the fighters he brought are his slave fighters. He — He was angry when Shadow burst in there and I followed after him. He wanted to kill Shadow and put me in chains.”

The queen’s eyes could cut steel, she was so angry. _“Dovaogēdy, gūrogon bona vala! Pryjagon se belma hen tolvie buzdari ziry maghatan kesīr!”_

Numerous Unsullied bowed and marched at once to the master in question. The man sputtered as he was dragged past Daenerys, but she barely spared him a glance. Waving him off to be brought back to the pyramid and dealt with later, she turned back to Torrhen. “How many slaves are still back there, Torrhen? The Unsullied shall go free them immediately.”

Torrhen blinked. “I didn’t count. But never mind that, your grace, I—”

“Never mind…?! I am the Breaker of Chains, Torrhen! I must have my soldiers free them at once!”

“Fine, send them, then! But — _look!”_

He pointed sharply to the fighting ring, making everyone turn and watch the mysterious fighter with the helmet defeat everyone who dared approach the platform, and all without killing a single one either. Everyone Ser Jorah defeated, he did so by knocking them out. Everyone in Daenerys’ company watched, amazed. It was so rare to see a pit fighter fight without killing his opponents in battle. Daenerys especially studied the swordsman with great interest, and Torrhen couldn’t help but swell with hope. Please let things be different this time around. Let the fact that Ser Jorah had protected him right now mean something to his future mother so she’d forgive him.

Finally, Ser Jorah was the only one left. Panting heavily, he slowly turned and approached the platform, his eyes immediately seeking Torrhen. Sighing in relief that he was okay, he then turned to Daenerys. There was a definite pause as he gazed up at her, and then he removed his helmet.

It was like she was already prepared to be angry, how fast her face changed. One moment, the queen was examining Ser Jorah curiously, the faintest traces of a neutral smile tugging at her lips. The next, Daenerys’ whole face hardened as she rose up again from the bench, towering over him in suppressed rage.

“Take him away,” she ordered. “Have his head thrown into Slaver’s Bay as I decreed.”

“Certainly, your grace,” Ser Barristan murmured, bowing politely before heading back down the steps to join some Unsullied in carting the disgraced knight away.

Ser Jorah’s shoulders sagged as he took a hesitant step forward. “Khaleesi, please—”

“Your grace, no!” Torrhen begged, his stomach dropping. “He helped me! Twice, now!”

“That doesn’t matter, Torrhen.”

“The hell it doesn’t! Don’t do this!”

He dashed back down the platform steps, determined to yank away Ser Barristan and every guard trying to drag away his fellow Northerner, but his liege knight caught him and held him back.

“Torrhen, enough!”

“No!” He yelled, fighting relentlessly. “Let me go! Ser Jorah!”

Daenerys didn’t even look at him. She turned her back to everyone and waited for her guards to drag him away. “Please be sure to be harsher when disciplining your squire for speaking out of turn from now on, Ser Barristan.”

“I certainly will, your — y-your grace! Torrhen, stop! T-This is—!”

“I’m glad you met the Dragon Prince, khaleesi!” Ser Jorah called out, managing to pull away from the soldiers. “Has he told you how we met?! How I found him and his wolf after the earthquake?! He hurt his ankle! He could barely walk! I took him to a sick house before the Unsullied came for me!”

There was a long pause. His story coincided with what the boy told them before. Torrhen had been telling the truth.

“I’ve brought another gift, khaleesi,” he went on. “One which will interest you!”

Daenerys spared a hesitant glance over her shoulder, curious.

Daario chortled as he sheathed his dagger. “A gift? What kind of gift? Don’t tell me you found Prince Snow’s sister. You traded in the queen for a so-called bastard princess?”

“Prince Snow? He’s a bastard? You never mentioned that, Mormont, let alone a missing princess.”

The new voice caught everyone off guard. Torrhen held his breath as Tyrion stepped out from the fighting pens and approached the platform. He casted the boy an intrigued look before focusing on the queen.

Ser Barristan was the only one amongst the queen’s councilors who didn’t stare in bewilderment at the dwarf. He sucked in a breath, releasing his squire in his surprise.

Tyrion halfheartedly chuckled. “Ser Barristan Selmy, it’s been a long time. I believe the last time we saw each other was back in Winterfell.”

The knight nodded, his mouth set in a firm line as he gently pushed Torrhen back towards the platform. “Indeed. Though your choice of company back then was quite different, I must say.”

“You know this man?” asked Daenerys, eyes flicking to the queensguard.

“Yes, your grace. Though I never expected to see him again until you took the Seven Kingdoms.”

Her gaze snapped back to the dwarf. “Who are you?”

Tyrion bowed. “I am Mormont’s gift. It’s a pleasure to meet you, your grace. You and the Dragon Prince,” he paused, glancing at Torrhen again. Shadow moved a few steps in front of his master, not in a threatening way, but rather to put some more distance between Torrhen and the imp. Tyrion raised a brow at the direwolf’s protectiveness before turning back to Daenerys. “I must say, when Mormont first mentioned how he ‘gifted you with a prince’ before, I assumed he meant something like a marriage alliance. I never expected the Dragon Prince to be a child, let alone a Northern bastard.”

“I’m not—”

“I asked you a question. You would do well to answer it,” said Daenerys sharply, cutting off Torrhen. _“Who are you?”_

He forced a smile. “My name is Tyrion, your grace. Tyrion Lannister.”

Her lips parted and she carefully gazed down at the imp. For the longest time, no one dared to say anything. Torrhen kept his mouth shut too, but ever fiber of his body was mentally praying that Daenerys would make a better choice in this timeline regarding Ser Jorah. Please let things be different!

An eternity passed before she turned to Daario. “Have the Second Son’s tie them up. They are both coming with us to the pyramid. Immediately.”

“Gladly, your grace.”

The return trip seemed to go by incredibly slow, yet somehow fast at the same time. It went slowly because Torrhen hated watching as Ser Jorah and Tyrion were bound in heavy ropes and forced to walk behind while guarded by the Unsullied and Second Son’s. But it also went fast because his mind was racing the entire time. He was trying to remember everything he’d read in the history book about his mother’s actions in the original timeline. He knew she’d banished Ser Jorah again when he came to her with Tyrion, but what he couldn’t remember reading about was if she banished him before or after they arrived at the Great Pyramid and spoke to Tyrion privately. How much time did he have to convince her not to send the knight away?

Finally, they returned. As Daenerys ordered Daario and his men to escort Ser Jorah and Tyrion to the audience chamber, Missandei excused herself to fetch Grey Worm from his chambers so he too could be part of this meeting, and Hizdahr hurried after Daenerys as she went on ahead to ready herself on top the dais. Torrhen tried following them, but Ser Barristan clamped a hand down firmly on his shoulder. “One moment, Torrhen.”

It took every bit of civility Torrhen had not to scowl. “Ser Barristan, please! I need to see this!”

“You can come in and watch from the sidelines, but on one condition.”

“What?”

He pressed his lips into a firm line. “You are to conduct yourself in the utmost respect. You will not interrupt. You will not shout. You will not argue or contradict whatever her grace decides. You are to pay attention the whole time and stay alert in case something should happen. Should you not, I will dismiss you as my squire immediately. Is that clear?”

Torrhen could’ve screamed, he was so frustrated. How was he supposed to help his future mother if he wasn’t going to be allowed to say anything?

“…Can I at least request the queen’s permission to speak in Ser Jorah’s defense before she questions him and Lord Tyrion? I won’t yell or argue if she won’t, but can I least ask?”

The knight paused, considering the idea. “I will ask in your stead. If her grace allows it, you may speak in his defense, but you will remember your manners while doing so. If not, you will not argue or plead her to change her mind. Understood?” Torrhen visibly sagged and nodded. “Good. Now, come along.”

Torrhen waited for his mentor to turn and lead the way into the throne room before following with a scowl. What was the point in talking if he couldn’t say what he wanted when he wanted? Annoying, beyond annoying.

Daenerys was already sitting on top the dais, and Hizdahr was standing quietly off to the side behind her. Other than offering a brief nod as they climbed the steps to stand on the lower platform beneath her as per their guard duties, Daenerys hardly even looked at them. Her whole face was blank as she stared stonily at the entrance to the reception hall. Missandei arrived a few moments later with Grey Worm. As the soldier slowly made his way over to where Hizdahr was, Missandei took her own position on the dais behind the queen.

With everyone finally assembled, Daenerys straightened to attention. Before she could do anything though, Ser Barristan stepped forward.

“Your grace, before you have them brought in, my squire has respectfully requested permission to speak in Ser Jorah’s defense.”

“No.”

Torrhen’s breath hitched. “Your grace—!”

 _“Torrhen,_ this is the only warning I’ll be giving you. Hold your tongue.”

The queen nodded, fix him with a cutting glare. “Ser Barristan is correct. I’ve tolerated your arguments and interruptions for far too long. You will _not_ do so now. Whatever warnings Ser Barristan may have given you before coming in here, I’m adding to it. One word, Torrhen, and you’ll be out of my court immediately. Understood?”

He fumed. She clearly hadn’t been considering his advice on forgiving his fellow Northerner. She was determined to either exile again or kill him. How was he supposed to prevent Ser Jorah’s second banishment if he wasn’t going to be able to say anything?! Still , he clenched his fists and stiff nodded.

Appeased, she looked back to the entrance. “Send them in, Captain Naharis.”

Footsteps sounded, and then Daario appeared in the entrance, his men dragging the dwarf and knight behind them. Bowing to her, Daario murmured a quiet order to his fellow sellswords to cut the men free from their bindings and then climbed up the steps to take up the other guard position.

Silence resounded, no one daring to speak. Torrhen hated that. It was torture to keep his mouth shut like he’d promised.

“Khaleesi,” murmured Ser Jorah, taking a hesitant step forward. “I — I would like to say—”

“You will not speak,” she said sharply. Waiting until stepped back again, she focused her attention on Tyrion. “Were it not for how Ser Barristan recognized you, I’d be a fool to blindly believe you are who you say you are. Do you take me for a fool, Tyrion Lannister?”

The dwarf shook his head. “Only a fool would say yes to that question.”

“Very true. I take it you consider yourself a clever man?”

“Some would say so, your grace.”

“Well, then tell me why I shouldn’t execute you now? After what your family did to mine, some would say I’d be foolish not to.”

“You want revenge against my House? I am your best chance for that.”

Daenerys tilted her head. “Oh?”

“Indeed. I killed my mother, Joanna Lannister, on the day I was born. I killed my father, Tywin Lannister, with a bolt to the heart. I did so because he was going to execute me for the murder of my nephew, Joffrey, which I had nothing to do with. One might say I am the greatest Lannister-killer of our time.”

She raised a brow. “For all the people who call my father the Mad King, you’d think they’d have a similar name for Joffrey Waters. Even across the Narrow Sea we’ve heard of your nephew’s cruelty. You’d think Westeros would have thanked you for that service if you were responsible.”

He let out a humorless snort. “Had you grown up in Westeros, your grace, you would understand. Dwarves are not looked on favorably by others, let alone their own families.”

“Still, none of those are good reasons as to why I shouldn’t kill you. It’d be reckless to welcome you into my service just because you’ve murdered members of your own family.”

Tyrion frowned, seemingly puzzled. “Into your service? With respect, your grace, we have only just met. I need time to determine whether or not you deserve my service.”

Ser Jorah glanced down incredulously, but Tyrion ignored him. Torrhen could only gape at the dwarf, but Ser Barristan subtly signaled him to tone back his look of shock. He tried to, but Daario had no qualms about hiding his inner thoughts. He loudly snorted, shoulders quivering as he struggled not to laugh. He stopped though when the queen’s eyes flicked his way.

“Would you prefer my men escorted you back to the fighting pits?” she quipped, glancing back down. “Just say the word.”

He wisely shut up at that, swallowing thickly. Torrhen had no idea what Tyrion could be thinking, but he didn’t care to think about it. He was stressed enough trying to help Ser Jorah. He couldn’t waste time right now thinking about Tyrion. Yes, the dwarf had played a role in his parents deaths, but he’d been decent to him and Lyaella in their timeline. He’d shown them remorse about the necessity in their parents, which was more than they’d ever seen from the Stark’s. Figuring out whether he should caution the queen against following Tyrion’s advice had to wait. Right now, Ser Jorah was who needed to focus on.

“When I was a young man,” Tyrion went on, “I heard a tale about a baby. A baby born during the worst storm in living memory. She had no gold, no lands, no armies. Only her name, and a few supporters who planned to use that name to their advantage. They soon sold her off to some Dothraki horse warlord, and that seemed to be that. But a few years ago, the most well-informed man I know told me that somehow, that girl had acquired not only wealth, lands, and armies in a very short time, but also three dragons. He believed she could be the best chance Westeros has to build a better world. I thought you were worth meeting, at the very least. And I must say, I’m quite glad I did,” he paused, turning his gaze to Torrhen. “If nothing else, I’m glad I got to see the so-called Dragon Prince. I’m curious what his story is, seeing how he’s a Northerner, a Snow, and has a direwolf for a pet.”

Torrhen gritted his teeth, ignoring the growing ache he felt in his temples. What was wrong with everyone? He was not a prince, and Shadow was more than just a pet. It was really annoying him, how many times he’d had to correct people about these things since traveling to the past.

Thankfully, no one noticed his building anger. Ser Barristan stepped forward, blocking him from the dwarf’s view and the queen fixed him with a scrutinizing look. 

“The only life you should be concerned with is your own, because I don’t see why you are worth meeting,” she declared. “Why should I care you are here? Why should I listen to you? What makes you different from the rest of my advisors?”

“Because you cannot build the world you you dream of alone. I mean no disrespect to your advisors, your grace, but none of them understand how Westerosi politics work, the games the played at court. Without someone who knows these things, you’ll never form alliances with the high lords or know which will support or oppose you.”

“I will have a very large army, not to mention very large dragons.”

“Politics isn’t the same as war. When I served as hand of the king to my nephew, I did quite well in the position considering the boy preferred torturing animals to ruling his people. I could do an even better advising a ruler worthy of the name, if you truly are a good queen.”

Daenerys was silent as she considered this, but her queenly mask never faltered. “You wish to advise me, you say?” Tyrion nodded. “All right, then. Consider this a test of your abilities. Tell me, what would you advise me to do with him?” Her gaze shifted to Ser Jorah. The knight bowed his head even deeper at the acknowledgment. “I swore I would kill him if he ever returned.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“The people would have no reason to trust a queen who can’t keep her word,” she went on. “However, the youngest member of my court brought up a valid point the other day. He reminded me that Jorah Mormont was once the Lord of Bear Island. He is from the North.”

Tyrion and Ser Jorah exchanged puzzled looks, but the pressure that’d been gradually building in Torrhen’s head lessened slightly as he straightened. Had he been too quick to judge his future mother? Was she considering what he’d told her before?

“With respect, your grace, what does that matter?”

Her eyes grew steely. “Because Torrhen explained just how different the North is from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Granted, he wasn’t very polite while explaining this so I don’t know whether he was exaggerating or not, but he made sure my small council and I understood how the North will see me in the future unless I have a Northerner’s advice on politics and their customs. The one thing I do believe he spoke truly of was how they won’t give me a chance to prove myself from them, not after the Red Wedding.”

Ser Jorah only stared blankly, but Tyrion tensed, his gaze flicking from his companion to Torrhen.

“I see… He told you all about that, did he?”

“Yes, he explained everything. Between the dishonorable murders of the self-proclaimed King of the North Robb Stark, his pregnant wife, and mother, to the bloodbath of all his slaughtered banner men celebrating outside the keep. Not to mention the disgusting desecration of the king’s body with his direwolf’s head being sewn on and paraded about.”

Tyrion winced, but Ser Jorah’s face drained of color. He stumbled back, shaking his head in disbelief, and covering his mouth with his hand. Despite her anger, the queen didn’t comment on his reaction. She simply waited for him to regain his composure before continuing.

“It’s complicated, taking that into effect. If I forgive him, I gain a valuable ally for placating the North, but I lose the trust of the Meereenese people because I don’t carry out my promises. If I kill him, it’s the opposite. The people will know I don’t make idle threats, but I’ll struggle later when it comes to Westeros. You wish to advise me, Tyrion Lannister? Counsel me, then. What do you think I should do?”

The dwarf was silent for several moments as he considered her question, glancing between her, Ser Jorah, and Torrhen the whole time. Torrhen did his best to keep his face as neutral as possible. He hoped whatever he said would be favorable for the knight.

“I don’t know how that boy met Ser Jorah. He kept Torrhen’s existence secret during our travels, but it’s clear he’s as loyal to him as he is to you. He calls him the Dragon Prince and fought off dozens of men to protect him safe, after all.”

“Indeed, but we are not discussing Ser Barristan’s squire. We are discussing Ser Jorah.”

“I know, but without knowing the story behind their past meeting, all I can really say at this time is that whomever Ser Jorah was when he first began spying on you, he is no longer that man. I’m not sure I’ve ever met a man who is as devoted to serving anyone as he is to serving you. And that boy… Torrhen, wasn’t it?” Daenerys nodded. “The one time he vaguely mentioned Torrhen while we were traveling, I mistakenly assumed the Dragon Prince was your prince consort and he was jealous for your affections. He didn’t stand for my teasing, mainly because he refused to let anyone mock you or Torrhen in his presence. He claims he’d kill or die to protect you both and I’ve yet to see any evidence to suggest otherwise… but he still betrayed you.”

Torrhen clenched his fists, his pulse pounding through his skull again. Damn it! Maybe things weren’t going to change for the better after all.

Tyrion hesitantly stepped onto the stairs. The Unsullied immediately raised their spears, but Daenerys merely raised her hand, stopping them. He climbed up two more before stopping. “Did he have a chance to confess his betrayal?”

“Yes,” she hissed. “Many opportunities, but he didn’t. Not until forced to do so.”

“That he did not trust you to forgive him is why under normal circumstances you could not welcome him back. As far as him helping you appease the North… I must ask, are you aware of why he was forced into exile from Westeros?”

Daenerys nodded. “He was forced to flee after the Warden of the North sentenced him to death after being caught selling people into slavery.”

“Yes, that’s right. Even if you forgave Ser Jorah, the North won’t have forgotten his past crimes. He wouldn’t be of much help in that area, sadly.”

“Then how could I appease the North? When I sail for Westeros, I intend to be seen as a benevolent liberator to the people rather than a foreign invader.”

Tyrion paused, thinking carefully. “As Northerns know from the Stark words, winter will be coming soon. The North isn’t exactly known for its plentiful harvests in the coldest months. Bring them grain and food from here in Essos, your grace. Supplies they’ll need to build more homes to keep warm. If you show them you wish to take care of them rather than force them to submit, they might be willing to listen to you.”

Daenerys was silent as she absorbed his words, still not showing any sign as to what she thought about this. Torrhen grit his teeth and try to hide his scowl. He and Lyaella had always known that Tyrion was smart, but he didn’t know what he was talking about. With the Bitch of the North in charge of Winterfell when his future father left the North to form an alliance with his future mother, she’d seized the chance to poison all the lords into not believing in the queen’s generosity. And even if she hadn’t, her kindness wasn’t enough for the smallfolk. They didn’t care because their lords and ladies hadn’t cared. His suggestion would amount to nothing and just be a stupid waste of food and supplies, giving them to people who truly didn’t deserve it considering their lack of gratitude in the original timeline. Just thinking about it made him angrier, and his head throbbed harder, too.

Taking a small step back to hide behind Ser Barristan, Torrhen cringed as he rubbed his temples, only barely listening to Daenerys. “I should kill him, then?”

Tyrion frowned. “Rulers who execute those devoted to them are not rulers who earn devotion from their subjects. You will have to earn the loyalty of the people if you’re to ever rule across the Narrow Sea… but you cannot have him by your side when you do.”

She pursed her lip before nodding. “Remove Ser Jorah from the city.”

The knight’s eyes shined with heartbreak as some of the Second Son’s moved to grab him, but he still didn’t say a word. He let them forcibly drag him to the exit.

That was the last straw for Torrhen. Ignoring his headache, he pointedly nudged Ser Barristan’s side to get his attention and thrust out his hand. “Give them back.”

“Torrhen, shush! Don’t—”

“My song sheets. Give them back.”

“What? No, I took them away for a reason. And this is not the time for you to—”

“No, it’s the perfect time, ser! I’m done with all this!”

Everyone stopped, turning to stare at them freely. Ser Barristan could only gape at the furious boy. “You’re… You’re done?”

“Aye, done! I’m not staying here if Ser Jorah’s not welcome! He leaves, I leave! So give me back my music sheets!”

Tyrion blinked and studied Torrhen curiously, but Ser Jorah jerked, twisting around to gaze back at him. “What?! No — No, Torrhen! You mustn’t leave just because of me! It’s too dangerous! You’re the Dragon Prince, so you have to—”

“Don’t call me that, ser! I’m no prince, I’m Torrhen Snow! And I’m not staying here a minute longer if the Mother of Dragons would rather cling to her anger and hatred than try to forgive others for their mistakes! I’m not sticking around to watch her spiral into madness!”

Ser Jorah flinched, but Torrhen didn’t notice. Not when the queen had abruptly risen from her seat and joined his liege knight in bending down to Torrhen’s level.

“Torrhen, you promised you’d not let your temper get the better of you.”

“Aye, and I kept my promise, your grace! The meeting’s over, isn’t it?!”

“It’s over when the queen says it’s over. Apologize right now, then return to your solar.”

He would’ve glared, but the constant drumming in his head was starting to make his feel queasy. Aside from his concussion, he’d never had a headache this bad before. He didn’t have time to get in the middle of a huge fight. He had to brush off this pain and go gather his stuff before Ser Jorah was tossed out of the city.

Wincing as he kept rubbing his temples, his vision suddenly shifted in and out of focus. It took him a moment to blink enough and force his eyes to go back to normal, and even then he made sure his voice sounded bitter. “Fine, I’ll go back to my solar. I need to get my stuff anyway! I’m sure as hell not leaving them here! C’mon, Shadow!”

Shadow obediently trotted down the dais behind his master as Torrhen trudged down. Missandei halted him after only a few steps, seizing his shoulder.

“Torrhen, I know you’re angry, but you can’t just—”

He jerked away, trying to walk faster. “Thank you for the notes you gave me on High Valyrian, Lady Missandei. I really appreciated your help. Now, excuse — woah!”

“Torrhen!” she cried, grabbing him just before he tripped and tumbled down the rest of the stairs. “Are you all right?!”

“A-Aye,” he croaked, struggling to right himself. His stomach was churning even more now. Fucking headache, making him all lightheaded. “Aye, I’m — I’m fine.”

Off on the sidelines, Grey Worm and Hizdahr exchanged worrying looks. “Is everything all right?” Hizdahr asked, both of them moving closer. “You — You don’t look good, Torrhen…”

Blinking again as he tried to focus on them, Torrhen forced a scowl. “Aye! I just got dizzy for a second, that’s all.”

Mindful of his injuries, Grey Worm slowly tried to climb the stairs. “Dizzy? You sick? Sit down and—”

 _“I’m fine!_ I don’t need any help!”

Shoving past the soldier, Torrhen ignored the drumming in his head and stormed down the steps. He didn’t even glance over at Ser Jorah or Tyrion as he stomped to the exit. He had to concentrate on walking in a straight line despite his dizziness and the pain. What in seven hells was happening to him? Was he about to have a fire flicker? He couldn’t recall a headache ever happening prior to one, even before he started experiencing those bizarre visions.

Well, if his fire was going to flicker out again, it was a good thing he was already leaving. No reason why he should let his future mother’s court know about his weird problem if he wasn’t staying. He just had to get to the exit and—

“You’re leaving so soon, little prince? Oh, what a shame!”

“Captain Naharis, don’t.”

“Lighten up, old man. It’s a shame your squire’s leaving us already. He has yet to prove to our queen that he’s been lying about his Targaryen lineage. I figured he’d be begging her to legitimize him and that he sister he’s mentioned as _real_ Targaryens before he gave up and stormed out of here.”

“That is none of your concern. You’d do well to—”

_“Do you ever fucking shut up, Daario Naharis?!”_

Everyone whipped around. Torrhen had lost his temper more times than he could count since arriving in the past, but he hadn’t been _this_ angry since the night of the memorial feast. His whole face was flushing so hard it was on the verge of splotching purple, and his eyes were bulging wildly. The muscles in his neck pulsed as he stood there glaring daggers at the sellsword, his whole body trembling under the haze of red hot fury.

Ser Jorah and Tyrion had no experience with his anger problems and could only gape at him in shock, but even the rest of the queen’s court was speechless by the pure hatred radiating off the boy. Torrhen was oblivious to them though, his eyes fixed on only one person — the Captain of the Second Son’s staring bewilderedly at him from atop the dais.

Adrenaline rushed through his veins as he marched back to the stairs, the throbbing in his skull muted in the burning flames of rage. _“You,”_ he spat, stomping up the steps. “You — How _dare_ you—!” He vehemently shook his head. “Don’t _ever_ taunt me about that!”

Missandei and Hizdahr couldn’t help but flinch at his shout, but everyone else glanced at each other in complete disbelief. Daario backed up as Shadow crouched down on all fours, snarling as his hackles rose. “Um, what—?”

“Shut up and listen!” He jabbed a finger into Daario’s chest. Hard. “Make fun of me all you want! Call me a prince! Doubt my Targaryen lineage! Do whatever the hell you want, but don’t ever — _ever_ jest about legitimization again! You… You have no idea what being a bastard means! No idea what it’s like! You will never understand that… so you will _never_ understand just how _cruel_ and _insulting_ it is when a bastard is legitimized!”

Everyone did a double take at that, and moments later they all started speaking all at once, asking him to explain himself or if he even understood what he was talking about. Torrhen couldn’t hear them, though. The rush of blood in his ears from the pounding in his head was just too loud. Focusing on his anger rather than the pain was the only way he could still function around everyone. It was a miracle he hadn’t snapped from both yet, and the fact everyone seemed baffled by what he’d said infuriated him more. For all the criticism people gave Jon Snow in the future for being a fool, it seemed like all adults in this era stupid. How could none of them understand the simple honesty in what he said? It wasn’t a lie or a half-truth, it was just the _truth,_ plain and simple. Any bastard who was legitimized was actually being spat on and insulted by those who did it. Why were they all staring at him as though he was insane for knowing this fact?

Daario awkwardly cleared his throat to shush everyone, and then slowly glanced to Daenerys and Ser Barristan with wide eyes. “You both believe me now, right? You agree this boy is crazy?”

Daenerys shifted uncertainly while Ser Barristan tensed.

“Captain Naharis—”

“Captain… I—”

Torrhen snarled, and dug his finger harder into Daario’s chest to make him look at him again. “Maybe I am insane! Madness’s supposed to run in House Targaryen, so I don’t know! If I am crazy, I’m sane enough to know it! But if by madness you mean anger, then damn it, I am mad! I’ll stay mad too if that means making you understand I’m serious! Don’t — _ever_ — suggest— that — again! For me or Lyaella! Me and Lyaella… we’re Snow’s! That’s who we are, and that’s all we’ll ever be!”

Ser Barristan finally snapped out of his shock. Seized Torrhen’s shoulder, he forcibly spun him around. “Torrhen — you’re not making sense. Why would you say that? Don’t you realize if you and your sister were to be legitimized, you’d be recognized as true members of House Targaryen? Once our queen takes the Iron Throne, she’ll need heirs. One of you could rule Westeros one

Torrhen shot him a scalding look, then spun around and heatedly marched back down the steps. “We don’t care about the throne! We don’t give two shits about who’s sitting on that pile of swords! If Queen Daenerys decided not to rule, that’s fine with us! We only support her going for it because she cares about it! But if you think we’ll smile and thank her for wanting to _use_ us in whatever games she plays, you’re wrong! We won’t be used like that! Not now, not ever!”

Daenerys swallowed, brows furrowing. “Torrhen… what are you talking about? I don’t understand…”

“Don’t insult my intelligence! You know perfectly—!”

* * *

" _Jadat she, jadat she! Lanat!"_

_Dirt and grass kicked up in his face as he scrambled after the others. His lungs heaved, but he didn't dare slow down. If he did, he'd be trampled for sure. They all would, actually. If they wanted to live, they had to run._

_Still, not all of them had the same instincts about survival as he did. He turned his head at the whistle of an arrow, only to go wide-eyed in shock._

* * *

"—well what I'm—! Gah!"

The whole world tilted sideways as he tripped over himself, skidding and slipping down nearly the entirety of the stairs. He would have toppled over and rolled down the rest of the way had Ser Jorah not lunged past the Unsullied guards and caught him just before he cracked his skull on the edge of the steps.

"Torrhen!" he cried, helping him back to his feet. "Torrhen, are you all right?!"

"A-Aye… Aye, I'm — Argh! Ow!"

His vision blurred as his head suddenly exploded. Pain. White hot pain. It was pounding through his whole head, like someone was whacking him over and over again with a mallet. It erupted so suddenly he couldn't even mentally prepare for it, and he tripped over himself a second time, nearly knocking over Ser Jorah as he tumbled down the last handful of steps.

Daenerys and Missandei gaped as he struggled to stand again, but Ser Barristan immediately hurried down the steps to help, as did Hizdahr and Grey Worm from their spot on the side.

"Are you hurt?" asked Ser Barristan, checking him over.

"My… My head…"

"Your head? Did you hit when you fell?" Hizdahr asked.

"Might be concussion. Again," said Grey Worm, squatting down in front of Torrhen. He held up two fingers. "How many fingers, boy?"

Torrhen ignored him, clutching both sides of his head as another wave of pain shot through him. They were standing so close that every time they spoke it sent fresh tremors ringing through his ears. "Shit…! Shit, shit, shit, this hurts!"

"But where, specifically? There's no blood, so—"

" _Stop talking, your making my headache worse!"_

It was a struggle to think clearly, but he mustered up enough lucidity to stumble away from the adults and towards the exit. The whole audience chamber was rocking back and forth so much he was sure he was going to be sick. He had to get back to his solar and lay down. If he took it easy for awhile, perhaps he'd—

Tyrion suddenly entered his line of site, frowning distinctly in his distorted vision. "Perhaps you ought to sit down on the stairs over there. You don't—"

He completely smacked into the half-man despite trying to move around him. Between being in too much pain to think clearly and too dizzy to see straight, Torrhen didn't apologize. He simply focused on staying on his feet and not toppling over again.

An obnoxious chortle suddenly echoed throughout the chamber. He instinctively yelped and slapped his hands over his ears to deafen the sound. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Madness. He's got the madness."

"Captain Naharis, this is _not_ the time!"

"Can you not see there's something wrong, here?!"

"Wrong? There's nothing wrong. He's just making this up to earn our beautiful queen's sympathy."

Ser Barristan scowled. "You honestly believe that? Look at him! He's in pain, and clearly disoriented!"

"It's an act, oh great knight. A very convincing one, I'll admit, but he's only pretending. I'll bet you anything he stopped talking mid-sentence and spaced out for that half second because he thought up this little ploy. He's always doing that whenever he loses his temper. You agree with me, right? Queen Daenerys?"

His future mother ignored him, electing instead to slowly go down the dais to see for herself if he was okay. Missandei was right on her heels, and after a derisive snort from the sellsword, Daario reluctantly followed, too.

"Your grace, you're only indulging this boy by believing this act. He's not—"

"Captain Naharis, if you wish for yourself and the rest of the Second Son's to remain in my employ, then stay silent. I will not warn you again," she snipped. He wisely shut up. Appeased, the queen signaled the others to step back and approached Torrhen herself. "You have a headache, you say? Are you sure you didn't hit your head a moment ago?"

Torrhen didn't answer, nor move his hands away from his ears. Noise, noise, noise! Why didn't they understand that all their talking was making things worse? Every syllable uttered was like a gong clanging in his head. It hurt so much, he could feel tears starting to form.

"Torrhen, we can't help you if you don't explain what's happening. What's wrong?"

He groaned. If nothing else, he had to tell everyone to shut up again. They had to stop talking. They were making things a thousand times worse with every word.

Shaking his head slightly to focus himself, he reluctantly opened his eyes to try to explain, but a chill suddenly went down his spine. He immediately snapped his mouth shut, the hairs on the back of his neck quickly rising.

Something… Something didn't feel right. Something was here right now. Something he couldn't see. Or someone…

Clutching his head tighter, he turned to leave. Either he was so lightheaded and in pain he was imagining things, or his haze of rage was dwindling instead to paranoia. Either way, he had to get out of here now. This strange feeling was getting worse and worse. He didn't know what it was, but if he didn't get out of here soon… something was going to happen, he could feel it.

A hand caught his shoulder. "Where are you going? Come, sit down on the stairs and rest. At least until this headache subsides."

He swallowed a groan, forcibly shaking off Daenerys' hand. "N-No. I… I've got to — got to—"

"— _you hear me?"_

Torrhen jolted, eyes popping wide open. "H-Huh?"

" _You… relieved… who are you?"_

It was like someone was shouting all across the room, their voice echoing so much he could barely understand them. What was happening to him now?

"I'm… I'm me… I'm Torrhen S-Snow…"

"What? Well, of course you are, Torrhen, but why does that—?"

"What d'you want?!"

" _Tell me… do you?"_

It was official. He was mad. Crazy. Insane. People could label it it however they wanted, but it didn't matter. It was clear he had succumbed to Targaryen madness.

"Go away!" He screamed, screwing his eyes shut as he stumbled towards the exit. He didn't want to see the shock and horror on everyone's faces right now as they saw him descend into madness. Especially not his future mother's. "Shut up! Go away!"

In the back of his mind, he vaguely registered that someone in the background was saying something, but he couldn't focus on them. The only thing that mattered was—  
  


* * *

_The man's eyes were wild as he poured over books, bloodshot and red and his hair oily and dirty as it hung over his face. When had he last bathed? Moreover, when had he last left this room? Other than a few flickering candles and a crackling fireplace against the wall, the room was shrouded in darkness, and the chambers' floor was covered in half-eaten plates and tossed aside books. It was no good. No good at all. None of these texts had the information he sought._

_Torrhen stared at the stranger in utter disbelief. Who was this man and what was he doing? He looked like a Targaryen of some sort judging by his silver hair, but Torrhen didn't know of any living Targaryen descendants aside from himself, Lyaella, and their future parents. Was there someone else of the ancient Valyrian House that had escaped notice during Robert's Rebellion? If so, who were they, and what was this survivor doing?_

_Growling thickly, the man suddenly slammed his current text shut and threw it against the wall with all his might. "Damn it!" he snarled, Torrhen flinching at his tone. "I've read almost everything! How much longer will this take?!"_

_Torrhen blinked as he huffed and swiped a new book off the stack next to him. How much longer would what take? What was he looking for?_

_Whatever it was, this stranger didn't find it in this new book. Nor in the next three books he skimmed through after it. As he leafed through the pages of the fourth book however, he suddenly stopped, blinking repeatedly in disbelief before quickly shuffling back several pages and reading carefully. For reasons Torrhen couldn't explain, a stone settled in his stomach as the man fished a silver ring out of his pocket. A dark smirk slowly spread across his face as he twirled it between his fingers. The more he read, the more twisted and maniacal his grin became, and after a awhile he reached over for a discarded book lying open next to him and started comparing notes between the two._

_The boy gulped. Whatever was going on, he didn't like it. Everything about this screamed pure evil, though he had no idea why._

_A joyful shriek suddenly erupted from the man, making him jump. He was laughing, his red-rimmed eyes bulging as he dropped the book and climbed off the floor. "At last! At last, I've found it! The secret I've been searching for!"_

_Torrhen yelped and jumped aside as the Targaryen shot past him, but once again, he was apparently invisible in this vision as he had been to others aside from that one time he saw that Northern boy with the direwolf. The stranger seemed half-possessed as he dashed to the fireplace, the flames almost singeing his nose as he moved as close as he could to the hearth._

" _Come to me," he begged, dipping his hand holding the ring into the flames. Torrhen jerked back in alarm as his skin reddened and bubbled as it burned and the silver of the ring started to melt onto his fingers, yet the man was unfazed by the pain. "Come to me! You're the only one who can help me now!"_

_For a long moment, nothing happened, then the temperature in the room seemed to drop significantly. Torrhen cringed, a shudder creeping down his spine. That evil feeling he'd felt before… it was here now. It was here and much, much stronger than it had been in the audience chamber._

_The man apparently also sensed the presence, because he whooped with joy and merrily laughed. "You came! You came to me! I thank you! I thank you for your mercy. Please, I beg you for help! I need your power! The power for her!" He dropped the molten remnants of the ring into the flames, sending sparks everywhere. "Help me have her! Please, help me have her! I'll do anything!"_

_Torrhen trembled, slowly backing away. Whatever the hell was going on in this vision, he was in the presence of a true Targaryen madman, a dangerous one. He didn't have any idea who he was or what he was doing, but he silently prayed that whatever he did, he'd remain invisible to this man and this bizarre evil feeling. He needed to escape from this vision somehow before they realized he was here!_

_Sadly, that appeared to be only wishful thinking on his end, because out of nowhere the ominous force suddenly shifted away from the stranger and swept across the chamber. Torrhen gulped and tried to press himself flat against the wall, but the entity seemed to know exactly where he was and flew straight towards him. The boy nearly lost his lunch as the icy chill of pure evil washed over his entire being._

" _Death shall come for you, Torrhen Snow," a haunting voice whispered. Torrhen froze. "It came for your parents before, it shall come again. And this time, you and your sister shall join them."_

_Torrhen couldn't stop himself. He screamed._

* * *

"Torrhen? Torrhen, can you hear us?"

"Boy? Boy, talk."

"Torrhen!"

"Say something, Torrhen! Please, anything!"

Dany bit her lip worriedly as Ser Barristan maneuvered his way to the front of the group and squatted down to his squire's level. "Torrhen, if… if you're just staying silent right now because you're angry at all of us, please stop. You're starting to scare us. At least show us you're listening and watch my hand." He waved his hand slowly in front of the boy's face. Still, Torrhen didn't move or acknowledge the hand. He just kept standing there, face blank and dark curls covering his eyes, oblivious to the world.

It was so strange. One moment, Torrhen had been arguing with all of them, his temper shot and face flushed with rage. The next, he'd gone stiff as a board and his face was wiped clean of emotion. He didn't respond to anything anyone told him, nor did he move when any of them did anything. One would assume he was faking all this out of sheer childish immaturity, but the frightening thing was that there wasn't even the subtlest sign to show he was consciously listening. No twitch of a finger or trace of an eye flicker. Not even a grimace if one of them poked him. It was like he'd become a living statue out of nowhere.

The imp awkwardly cleared his throat. "I take it this sudden silence is not a common occurrence with this boy?"

Missandei shook her head. "No, not really—"

"Wrong. Very wrong, Missandei."

Dany, Missandei, and Hizdahr turned to him, puzzled. Missandei in particular blinked repeatedly in gentle confusion. "What? None of us have ever seen him—"

" _You've_ never seen him go silent and rigid like this when he loses his temper," Daario chortled. _"I_ have, and so've these two, here."

He jerked his head at the other two important warriors in her employ, a glimmer of amusement twinkling in his eye. Dany ignored him though and focused on Ser Barristan and Grey Worm, her thoughts too scattered and confused to try and make sense of. "This — This has happened before? This silence?"

Grey Worm frowned. "It only happen once Ser Barristan and I know of. Maybe two, but we not sure."

"What? What do you mean?" Hizdahr asked.

Ser Barristan lowered his hand and sighed. "Remember what I told the healer the day I brought him here, your grace? During the riot he seemed to… freeze up like this for a few seconds, but it happened so fast neither Grey Worm nor I were entirely sure whether he froze out of fear or not, and we didn't really get a good look at his face. The second time was just the other day out in the training yard."

"What happened?"

"Well, it's just like now, your grace. He lost his temper and I sent him off to train alone until he calmed down. He just… froze up while attacking the training dummy. Mid-swing, too."

"We all try talking, he no respond. At all. Then he fine, finish attack like nothing happen. Though lose balance and fall."

"And that's not counting in how he put on this act the day I first threw him out."

She whipped around. "Excuse me?"

Daario chuffed. "He did this the day he came here, my queen. I told you before how I didn't believe his story and had him tossed out. Well, he—"

"You _what?!_ You rejected him when he first came here?!"

"Silence, Ser Jorah. I warned you before to hold your tongue. Now, please continue, Captain Naharis."

He smirked. "As you wish, my queen. Anyway, I had one of my men cart him out of there, but he kept screaming at me the whole time — or at least until he cut himself off mid sentence and just went quiet like this."

Dany's lips parted, alarmed. "He did? Truly?"

Daario shrugged. "My men say he started yelling again right as they were tossing him out. It's a weird con he's putting on, but it's not worth entertaining. If you ask me, we should just ignore him. He'll snap out of it any minute now and—"

She stepped past him, kneeling down directly in front of the boy to be level with his face. "Torrhen? Torrhen, can you hear us?" she asked, gently shaking his shoulders. His head wobbled lifelessly for a few moments, but he still gave no response. "Please, say something. Move, at least."

It was no use. It was like talking to a doll, how detached he was.

A small whine at her side made her look down. Shadow was sidling past them all to press up worriedly against Torrhen. The direwolf truly loved his boy and kept nuzzling his head underneath his arm, licking away at his fingers. Still, Torrhen seemed to be completely unfazed by the sensation. He just kept standing there with his dark curls covering his eyes, oblivious to the world.

Dany thickly swallowed, her mind racing. Daario could believe whatever he liked, but it was clear everyone else here shared her opinion rather than his. This… This wasn't normal. If Torrhen was really faking this, he was a better liar and actor than anyone she'd ever met. As much as people could pretend to ignore someone else, there would still be visible signs that they technically could see and hear whoever they were blocking out. A clenched jaw, flinching fingers, narrowing brows, an involuntary eye flicker… or _something._ Yet none of that was happening here. It was like someone or something had cut the thread that linked Torrhen's consciousness to the rest of his being and only left the shell of his body behind.

"Torrhen, I need you to give some sign that you hear me. If… If you don't, I'll assume you're—"

"Oh, for the love of all things good and holy, little prince! Come on!" Daario shoved his way to the front of the group, firmly shaking Torrhen's shoulder. He'd apparently lost his prior amusement by now and was frustrated by this unexplainable silence. The boy's head wobbled quite a bit this time as he groaned, but other than that he still didn't budge. "Move, damm it!"

Everyone glared at the sellsword. Ser Barristan, especially. "Captain Naharis, that is not going to help."

"Acting nice isn't helping things, either! If none of you are gonna be tough with this brat, I will! Oy, Prince Snow!" he snapped, cuffing the boy in the back of the head. "Enough with the silence already! Time to—!"

Daario cut himself off with a startled yelp, jerking back in alarm. No one could blame him, though. Not when Torrhen suddenly fell helplessly to the ground and started convulsing wildly.

"Torrhen!"

"Seven hells!"

"What — What's happening?!"

"Back! Get back! He need space!"

Were it not for Grey Worm's insistence and forceful shoving away of Shadow when the wolf howled anxiously and tried dashing to his master, Dany was sure she would have screamed. Her queenly mask was wiped away in her horror, blood draining from her face as she watched Torrhen shake. He was frothing at the mouth, spittle trickling down his cheek and neck as he kept biting his tongue. His limbs flailed sporadically the whole time, for what reason Dany didn't know. But as horrifying as all this was, there was one thing in particular that frightened her the most.

His eyes. Rather than being unconscious as one would expect, Torrhen was still awake.

Or rather, he seemed to be awake. It was impossible to know for certain since his normal violet orbs had rolled up in the back of his head and all that could be seen was just the whites.

"T-Torrhen!" she cried, falling to the ground and reaching to tug him up. "Torrhen, what — what's—?!"

"Your grace, no!" Strong hands clasped her upper arms, dragging her back. "F-Forgive me, my queen, but don't! Don't touch him!"

She numbly shook her head, weakly trying to break free from Ser Barristan's grasp. "B-But — But I — Look at him! He's _sick!_ W-We can't just—!"

"He needs to ride it out, khaleesi," said Ser Jorah, tugging off the leather armor chest piece he'd been wearing all this time and rushing forward. Moving to stand directly behind Torrhen's head, he squatted down and carefully tilted his head up to slide the leather underneath as a cushion. While he didn't try to restrain the boy, he did his best to keep Torrhen's mouth open so he could breathe. Swallowing thickly as he gazed at his rolled back eyes, he shook his head in disbelief. "The shaking sickness… I'd no idea Torrhen had it when we met. Let alone the Sight…"

The Sight? What was the Sight? What was Ser Jorah talking about? Dany filed these questions away for later, though. Right now, the only thing that mattered was Torrhen.

"What can we do in the meantime?!" Missandei asked, her voice frantic. "Can't — Can't we stop it?!"

"Ask him!" Hizdahr snapped, shooting Daario a sneer. "He smacked the boy!"

"I — I barely touched him!" Daario protested, throwing up his hands as he backed away a few steps. "Just a small cuff on the head! That's all!"

"This wasn't your fault, Captain Naharis," said Tyrion, eyes wide as he watched the boy continue to thrash. "The shaking sickness is just one of those things. You… You just happened to touch him right before it started, that's all…"

"But how do we stop it?!" Dany demanded, flinching back as Torrhen's foot nearly kicked her in the stomach. "There — There must be _something_ we can—"

"There isn't, your grace."

"He must go through it. We wait. Help him when over."

Tears formed in Dany's eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She'd come to know many types of fear throughout her life, but the dread seeping over her now was a kind she'd never experienced before. This wasn't the same as fearing for her own life or praying for her soldiers to stay safe during battle. The enemy here was of an invisible nature, one which couldn't be defeated with swords or dragon fire. There was literally nothing she could do for Torrhen except sit here with him until whatever was happening finally ended.

Time ticked past, seconds turning to minutes. Torrhen showed no signs of stopping his thrashing, though. Not even when he lost control of his bladder and a yellow puddle formed underneath him.

"Ack! Gross!"

"Hold your tongue, Captain Naharis, or lose it!"

Daario knew better than to test her with that tone. He wisely shut his mouth and kept his disgust to himself.

It was at least another minute or so before the shaking subsided. Torrhen eyes fully closed, now unconscious, and Dany let out a deep sigh of relief she hadn't even realized she'd been holding in all this time. It was over, whatever all that was. Relieved couldn't even begin to describe how thankful she was.

As Ser Jorah carefully rolled Torrhen onto his side, the boy groaned, listless and disoriented. "Ugh… I… I…?"

"Torrhen!" she gasped,reaching for his hand. "Can you hear me?!"

His fingers twitched in her grasp. Face cringing, he weakly cracked his eyes open. To Dany's relief, they were back to normal. Still, it seemed like it took him a great deal of effort to focus on her. "Y-Your… Your grace…?"

She lightly brushed a loose curl away from his face and forced a smile. "Hello, Torrhen. How are you feeling?"

"F… F-Foggy…" he croaked, free hand rising to his brow. He cringed the moment he touched his temple. "Hurts…"

"What? What hurts? Did you hurt yourself?"

"Uh-uh," he murmured, barely managing to wiggle his head back and forth. "Just… hurts. Another headache…"

Another headache? He's had more headaches beyond his concussion? She opened her mouth to ask more, but a blur of black shot past her, rushing straight to Torrhen's face.

"Ugh…! S-Shadow, no! No kisses! I'm wet enough…! Wait, w-wet…?"

Shoving his direwolf away, Torrhen did his best to sit up. He only made it halfway though before he realized he was lying in a puddle of his own making. Within seconds, he went completely white and lost consciousness.

Chaos ensued again as everyone tried to speak, but this time, Dany didn't contribute to the pandemonium. She swiftly rose and clapped her hands, silencing everyone. "Missandei, would you be kind enough to…" she waved her hand vaguely at Torrhen, unsure how to politely phrase her request.

Missandei nodded, not at all disgusted or deterred. "Certainly, your grace. I'll get him cleaned up."

"Thank you."

With a rushed curtsy, Missandei promptly signaled a nearby Unsullied guard to help her collect the child, and with one last polite nod her way, they hastily sped out. Shadow trotted after them, red eyes locked on the unconscious form of Torrhen in the soldier's arms.

"Grey Worm, could you please find someone in your ranks to bring a healer here from the nearby sickhouse? I don't know what just happened, but I think it's wise for Torrhen to be checked over right away."

"At once, my queen," he said, forcing a slight bow.

She smiled in gratitude, and then turned to Ser Barristan, Tyrion, and Ser Jorah. "Ser Barristan, please escort Ser Jorah and Tyrion Lannister to two separate guest chambers and inform the Unsullied to stand guard."

"Your grace?"

"I'm still unsure of whether or not to execute you, Tyrion Lannister," she said, glancing to the dwarf, "but considering the present circumstances, I shall have to think that over later. As for you, Jorah Mormont, I have questions for you."

"Khaleesi?"

"Questions which you _will_ answer honestly about after Torrhen is better. After that…"

Ser Jorah frowned at how she trailed off, but still nodded obediently. Ser Barristan didn't allow him or Tyrion the chance to say anything further, though. He simply nodded himself before escorting them both out the door behind Grey Worm.

Turning to Hizdahr, she flashed an apologetic smile. "I am sincerely sorry that the visit to the lower fighting pits went so terribly wrong. Provided that the illegal slave owner there has been arrested as I ordered, would you please extend my apologies to the pit owner for our hasty departure earlier."

"Of course, your grace. Excuse me."

"What about me?" Daario asked as Hizdahr headed out. "What important task do you require of me, your grace?"

He tried to grin, but he immediately stopped when he saw her heated glare. "Find some of your men and have them clean this up," she ordered, eyes flicking to the puddle. "Immediately, if you will."

"What?! Your grace—!"

Dany walked off without another word. She didn't have time to listen to his protests right now. She needed to return with all haste to her chambers and change out of her soiled dress before the healer got here. She didn't understand what just happened to Torrhen, but she knew he needed be examined right away. Whatever was wrong with him, the healer would figure out, and she intended for him to relay the boy's diagnosis to her personally.  
  



	16. Emerging from the Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for how long it’s taken me to finish this chapter! Believe me, when I posted the last chapter back in November, I never expected it would take me until FEBRUARY to finish this one! But what can I say? Life happened at unexpected times and it was hard for me to get the chapter finished. The good thing however is that it is finally finished and you all can read more now! I hope you all enjoy this latest update! :D
> 
> I’d also like to take a moment to give my thanks to both Longclaw 1-6 and WrathofAvarice for their help in brainstorming certain areas in this chapter I hit writer’s block on. Thanks a lot for all your support, guys!
> 
> Oh, and I should add that the song in today’s chapter was loosely changed from the Game of Thrones-inspired song “You Win or You Die” by Karliene on YouTube. Seriously, go check it out! It’s a beautiful song!
> 
> Now, onto the story stats! We got 625 kudos, 152 bookmarks, 24,236 views, and 458 comments! Not bad, not bad at all! I am a tad bit disappointed we didn’t reach the comment goal of 460, but we were only two comments away from it, so no big deal
> 
> Now for this chapter’s comment goal... How about we try for a somewhat easier goal this time and strive for maybe 475 comments? That’s only 17 comments all together, so I think it will be easier for you guys! Good luck, everyone!
> 
> Well, I won’t keep you all any longer! Enjoy today’s chapter, and be sure comment when you’re done!
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> \- Elphaba818

“How is it coming?”

“G-Good, I think. I’m just trying to figure out the… the right order for the second half. And I don’t know one word.”

“Which one?”

“‘Ward.’ Should I just… j-just write it down in the Common Tongue?”

“Certainly not, and never consider doing so again! Adding in words with no direct translation in High Valyrian to the Common Tongue has become a terrible habit in Valyrian speakers today. Without the Valyrian empire influencing the language, people have forgotten one of the most important tricks to that issue.”

“Oh, I didn’t know! Sorry…”

“No need to apologize. It’s a bad habit that’s been spreading among the users for at least two generations, if not longer. I had to correct Rhaegar on this error too when I saw he made that mistake when writing in High Valyrian.”

“I understand. But what should I write down instead? I… I don’t know what else to write instead for this sentence.”

“What is the context in which you are trying to use the word ‘ward’? As in warding off danger, or as a guest?”

“Guest.”

“Use the word _zentys._ That literally means ‘guest.’”

“Thank you,” Lyaella murmured, scribbling the word down on her sheet of parchment. She and Maester Aemon had been working on her High Valyrian for most of the morning now and it was necessary for her to try writing sentences as well as reading them. Every morning when she finished her daily swordplay training they met up in the library, drilling over the pronunciations for reading and speaking basic words and phrases. Maester Aemon had insisted on the daily lessons as soon as she was healthy again, and after their first session, Lyaella understood why. The more she tried to understand how grammar rules changed and phonetics differed in the ancient language, the more confused she became. Instead of following the same sentence structure as the Common Tongue where things were laid out as subject-verb-object, in High Valyrian they were recited as object-subject-verb. Whenever she translated something, she had to remember to correctly mix up words in the new order before remembering the direct adaptation in High Valyrian. Step one was hard enough without remembering step two, but then adding in the special pronunciation rules in step three for almost all those words made her want to cry. The complexities of it all were enough to make her head spin.

Finishing her rough sentence, she glanced back up. “I think I’m done, now.”

He smiled. “Good, good. Now, try repeating it back to me.”

Lyaella reddened, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before clearing her throat. “All right. Um… _B-Brōzio ñuha iksis Lyaella Sōnar. Iksan zentys hen Bantis Urnēbagon.”_

Maester Aemon nodded, white eyes full of mirth. “I assume you were trying to say, ‘my name is Lyaella Snow. I am a guest of the Night’s Watch?’”

She frowned. “Did I m-mess up a lot?”

“Not terribly, only two errors. The first is that your dragon’s name of Sōnar directly translates to ‘winter.’ If you wish to say ‘snow,’ you must shorten it to simply _sōna,_ and you forgot to include the transition of _iā_ in between _iksan_ and _zentys_ in your second sentence.”

“Oh! I’m sorry!”

He laughed and waved off her flustered words. “It’s all right, you’re learning. You’ll remember and do better soon so long as you practice.”

She shrugged, averting her eyes. “I… I hope so…”

“Now, now, no need to get upset. Everyone’s a beginner when they start learning something new. There’s no shame in being a slow learner.”

“But I don’t have time to go slowly. I have to learn right away to help Jon.”

“Yes, I know. It’s important for you to know our family’s mother tongue, but not at the cost of learning incorrectly. Better to take your time and go slowly than to rush and learn incorrectly. Patience is an important quality, Lyaella, and after everything you told me about how you came to be here, it will have be one of your top qualities when it comes to him and the rest of our family.”

“I h-hope you’re right, Maester Aemon.”

“Come now, what did I tell you to call me when we’re in private?”

She blinked, then promptly straightened. “Oh, right… sorry, Uncle Aemon.”

The old man beamed. Ever since she’d finally confessed to him who she was and that she’d come from the future, Maester Aemon had been quite insistent on having her call him ‘uncle’ whenever they were alone. He’d listened to her tale with an open mind and never once accused her of being mad or a liar. Aside from an occasional question, he’d heard her out thoroughly and when she was done he’d simply smiled and said how happy he was that he could help his family once again. Before meeting her, he feared he’d die alone at the Wall without being able to help his last trueborn descendant across the sea. Words couldn’t describe how overjoyed he was knowing that not only could he help her now, but that he’d already been helping and offering counsel to a second unknown relation for the past few years. Maester Aemon believed her, and more importantly he was helping her now. He was old and sick, but he’d help her however he could in changing her future parents fates. And that meant everything to Lyaella.

A low rumble and whimper from off to the side drew her attention, and Lyaella turned to see Sōnar and Ghost rising from their spots in front of the hearth. She beamed as they approached. “Ghost! Sōnar! Coming to cheer me up?”

Her dragon trilled sweetly, but Ghost’s fluffy tail swayed back and forth as he trotted forward. She giggled and slid onto the floor, her arms open wide as he bounded into her arms.

She sank her fingers into his soft fur and peppered him with kisses. Ever since she’d had her lung problems, the white direwolf had been following her everywhere she went, sort of like how Shadow had taken to following Torrhen around when he was a pup. It made sense they had that in common, but nothing compared to snuggling up with her future father’s loyal companion. Well, except maybe—

A low gust of wind tousled her hair and she glanced up. Sōnar was standing over them, blue eyes narrowed in obvious jealousy.

“Oops! Sorry, girl! Hope you’re not mad,” she fretted, standing and showering her with attention. “I didn’t mean for you to feel left out.”

Sōnar snorted, but her blue eyes lost their edge as she nuzzled against her small mistress. Lyaella giggled, enjoying the embrace. As silly as Sōnar was for being jealous of Ghost, she was still her dragon sister. And if Sōnar hadn’t grabbed her attention right then, her thoughts would’ve drifted back to that time. Back to Wisp…

She shook her head, frowning at her drifting thoughts. No, she mustn’t dwell on that. She couldn’t fall to pieces in front of her kind old uncle. So long as she and Torrhen always remembered that day, it was fine not to think about it. They were Northerners, so they mustn’t ever forget that terrible day. It was their culture to remember and forever be shaped by terrible experiences, after all.

Ghost whimpered, sensing her shifting mood. Tucking his snout under her arm, he wiggled his head under it to lick her cheek. Lyaella shrieked with laughter. “Ghost, hey! Stop, that tickles!” He wagged away, pleased by her giggles. Even Sōnar rumbled and nuzzled her harder. Lyaella couldn’t help herself. The more they kissed and snuggled her, the harder she laughed. “You two are… the best I could ever ask for! You both knew what I needed, didn’t you? You sensed my thoughts, right?”

“Oh? What were you thinking about?” Maester Aemon asked, making her turn. “Were you feeling sad?”

Grateful that he couldn’t see it due to his blindness, Lyaella forced a weak chuckle and climbed back in her chair. “Just for a second, Uncle, but it’s nothing, really. S-Shall we continue, now?”

“Actually, I think we can stop for the day. We’ve been working for quite some time already.”

“Oh, very well. I’ll clean up.” Setting her High Valyrian book off to the side, Lyaella collected the spare sheets of parchment and screwed the cap back onto the ink pot. Tucking them and her quill in the inner pocket of her cloak, she gathering the various scraps of parchment she’d been practicing writing on. “Should I go get Rhaegar’s letters and the old tome we’ve been trying to transcribe? Or should I just… just find the books we were looking through yesterday?”

“No, don’t bother. There’d be no point.”

Her sleeve nearly caught fire as she whipped around from the hearth, several scraps of parchment fluttering away and entirely missing the flames. “What? B-But… But I thought you agreed with me about Rhaegar’s theory. I don’t know if he was right or not about… about the L-Long Night being related to the Andal’s conquest, but if I’m to have any chance at all in h-helping my parents, I need to know more about the legend and Westeros’ history back then.”

He smiled. “I do agree with you, Lyaella, and it’s wise of you to look into the facts on the legend and research Westeros’ history back then instead of just believing blindly. But there’s no point in continuing to search for that information while here at Castle Black. I’ve already told you everything I know and remember about the legends and my letters to Rhaegar. I’ve given you his letters and that music box so you can read through them any time. But we’ve gone through just about all the books on these matters here in Castle Black’s library. The information you’re looking for most likely isn’t here.”

“O-Oh, I see…”

“Indeed. Were you not a girl and a few years older, I’d suggest to Lord Snow to dye your hair and go with Sam when he sends him to Oldtown to be the next Maester of the Night’s Watch, then you could continue researching at the Citadel. Sadly, my fellow maester’s are against allowing women and children access to their library.”

“Mmm,” she murmured, her smile strained.

Maester Aemon sensed her uneasiness. “You don’t trust Sam?”

“I… I think he’s a good person. He’s better to me than most even if he’s uneasy around Sōnar. But…”

“But his actions in your timeline make you reluctant to turn to him for help.”

“Y-Yes, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s perfectly understandable. I’ll admit I was surprised when you told me about some of his choices in the future.”

Knowing he couldn’t see her nod, Lyaella sighed and tugged Ghost’s head onto her lap. Beckoning Sōnar closer, she leaned back against her long neck. “I get why he didn’t like my mother, but my father… he turned his back on Jon when he needed him. And he was so odd around me and Torrhen when we met him. I don’t know what to think about him now.”

“Sam’s a good man, Lyaella, really. He saved Lady Gilly and her young son from death on two separate occasions beyond the Wall. And unlike many in the Night’s Watch, he’s the only one who knows that knowledge and wisdom are what really matter in this world. Anyone who swings a sword and charges blindly into battle can die a hero, but becoming an excellent swordsman depends on strength. Strength will eventually fade, but a good education will last your entire life. He’s down here almost every day, reading every book he can find about the Long Night. He knows we’ll need to know as much about the first War for the Dawn when winter comes.”

“Because of the army of the dead?”

“Indeed. Had it been your brother and direwolf who landed here instead of you and Sōnar in the past, I’d be very concerned for their safety in the coming war. He probably would’ve been forced to take the black to save himself from Stannis had everyone immediately realized his Valyrian lineage. Being bound to the Wall is not something I wish for either of you, Lyaella, and certainly not when death is on the march.”

Lyaella wished he could see her simply nod in reply. It’d be easier to keep her reservations about the Night King and white walkers a secret if she wasn’t forced to verbally answer everything he said on the topic. “Right, of course.”

“Do you have any suggestions on how you can continue your research into this? I’m afraid Castle Black’s library will be of no further help to you in this matter.”

“N-No. I’m not… not really good at planning ahead. Torrhen’s smarter than me there. I usually t-think up good ideas in the spur of the moment.”

“Then perhaps it’s time you start doing so. As the Stark words say, Winter is Coming, and it’s not just death that comes with it. If what you’ve told me about the future is true, then Winter will be the time for wolves, too.”

She tensed, one hand automatically reaching for her dragon pendant and music box key while the other froze while stroking Ghost’s fur. A lump formed in her throat, waves of pain flooding her memories. “Y-Yes, I know.”

“I’m glad you trusted me with the truth of who you are, Lyaella. Words cannot express how overjoyed I am you trust me to know about the future and you wish to ensure our House survives to see the far-off Spring. But we both know I’m old and dying, child.”

“Don’t say that, Uncle! You’re fine!”

He smiled tiredly in return. “It’s the truth. I am old and dying, Lyaella. Which is why it’s imperative you consider trusting someone else here on who you are.”

Lyaella froze, eyes going wide. “W-What? But… I can’t!”

“I’m not going to be around for much longer. I can feel it,” he explained. “I’m more than happy to help you before my time is up, but that could happen any day, Lyaella. When I do pass on, you’ll have no one to confide in again, so you must trust at least one more person with where you’re from.”

She frowned, staring aimlessly at the table. “I… I don’t know. Lady Kinvara warned me and Torrhen about telling people we’re from the future unless we trust them completely, and considering how our parents were ripped apart because of… well, that truth I told you about, it’s risky even whispering it to someone else. I trust you because you’re family, uncle, and family’s supposed to be the one thing you’re always supposed to trust. But…”

“But considering how the family you were raised by betrayed that trust towards your parents, you’re hesitant about trusting those who aren’t your family now?”

“Our aunts and uncle are not family to me and Torrhen,” she quickly explained, squeezing her pendant. “They… They lost the right to call themselves that a long time ago…”

He nodded in understanding. “I see.”

“I’m… I’m never telling anyone about who my father truly is ever again. It’s too dangerous for us to even talk about it right now…!”

“You’re right, and the fact you know that without me even needing to tell you means you are a very smart girl, Lyaella.”

She jerked. “I… I am?”

“Certainly. When I said you ought to try confiding in someone else, I didn’t mean you should tell them everything. If you feel like certain details in your story are too dangerous to share, do not share them. Tell only what you feel is necessary for them to know and no more. Truths such as your father’s true lineage are not truths that should be in circulation even as a secret between anyone aside from you and your brother. Do you understand?”

She hastily nodded before stopping herself, remembering he couldn’t see. “Y-Yes, uncle. I understand.”

“Still, you do need someone else to talk to about this, and considering what you’ve told me about the future, my first suggestion is that you should tell Sam.”

Lyaella gasped. “What? No.”

“Lyaella—”

“No, uncle. I… I don’t think he’s a bad person and he’s been decent to me so far, but… but I told you how he helped tear my parents apart in my timeline. I know he must’ve been upset about… about his father and brother, but he still took part. And then how he acted around me and Torrhen the one time we met him… I don’t trust him with this. I-I-I can’t. I just can’t…”

The resounding silence from her elderly relative felt so judgmental that Lyaella hung her head, ashamed. Sōnar warbled and tried to nudge her shoulder in comfort, but Lyaella ignored her. Not even Ghost pressing up against her lovingly while licking her fingers brought a smile.

It seemed like an eternity passed before Maester Aemon broke the silence. “People often make mistakes in judgment when it comes to family, Lyaella. I imagine you and your brother have very few if any good memories when it comes to your relatives, but for someone like Sam, he probably has many good memories of his younger brother and at least a handful or so of his father despite his cruelty towards him. My best guess is that the Sam that you knew before was tricked into contributing into your relatives scheme by playing on his emotions at the time. He’s a good man, Lyaella, believe me.”

“I know… but he still took part, and that doesn’t explain why he treated me and Torrhen so rudely when we met him once…”

“Oh, that’s simple. He was ashamed.”

She blinked, puzzled. “A-Ashamed?”

Maester Aemon nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Sam is Jon’s closest friend here at Castle Black. They met during training and have been two of the closest brothers here at the Wall that I’ve seen over the years. Were it not for the fact I grew up in King’s Landing and know how to spot a lie, I’d assume you were mad to spin a tale of Sam betraying Jon. But I know you’re not mad, Lyaella. You’re shy, quiet, and must learn to embrace the words of our House more into your everyday life, but you’re not insane nor a liar. Which means the Sam you knew in your world was ashamed of his actions and couldn’t bear to be around you or your brother. It’s that simple.”

Lyaella bit her lip. “I g-guess that’s possible, but… I don’t know. I still don’t think I c-can trust him with this secret. I’m sorry…”

Maester Aemon sighed. “It’s all right. Trust needs to be earned after all, and considering your circumstances, earning your trust for sharing your past mustn’t be easy. Still, I do think you should reconsider sharing your tale with him, Lyaella. He’ll be heading to the Citadel soon and will have access to a wealth of knowledge. If your facts are right, he’ll read about a certain event in your grandparents past while there without realizing its importance. If nothing else, he must know not to share that event with your uncle.”

“I… I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“Indeed, it’s important to always think ahead and be prepared. Consider talking to him, Lyaella, even if you don’t tell him the full truth. If you want to trust someone else with who you are, then I advise you only tell that other person if you trust them as much as you trust me, and only if they themselves have been drastically changed due to your presence here. It’s too risky speaking to someone about all this if their life hasn’t changed significantly due to your presence in the past, but someone who’s life has already drastically changed will already be affected and can be approached about this. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“Good, very good. Thank you for listening, Lyaella… heaven knows Brynden never did,” he murmured quietly.

She furrowed her brows. “B-Brynden?”

Maester Aemon fell silent, stiffening somewhat at her inquiry. “Yes, Brynden Rivers,” he said, voice growing sad. “He was the last relative I had the pleasure of speaking to in person before you came here.”

Lyaella blinked “Brynden Rivers… that sounds familiar. I t-think I read it in one of the Targaryen history books…”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s one of the most famous Targaryen bastards of our House, though you’d probably remember him better by his nickname. Bloodraven.”

Her eyes bulged. “B-Bloodraven? The one who saved Westeros and was punished for it by A-Aegon the Unlikely?”

Maester Aemon turned to her at once. “You know his tale? I thought you didn’t know much about our ancestors.”

“I don’t know much, but his story is one of the few Maester Marlon actually… actually stressed over when teaching me and Torrhen about history. He liked comparing him to… to our father…”

“Ah, I see. Because he too was sent here to the Wall for becoming a kinslayer.”

“Mm-hmm. We really sympathized with his story.”

“Well, don’t. If there was ever a Targaryen sentenced to Castle Black that deserved to be here, it was undoubtedly Brynden Rivers.”

Lyaella couldn’t help but gape at how hard his expression suddenly became. “U-Uncle…?”

He sighed. “Forgive me, Lyaella, I’m sure you’re surprised to hear this, but trust me when I say that despite the similarities between his story and your father’s, the reasons that are explained in the history books on why he was sentenced here to Castle Black don’t explain everything regarding him.”

“What did you mean?”

“It’s a long story, child, and quite complicated. Not for you to worry about. Just know this. In many cases love is the death of duty, as I told Jon once before. In his case, duty was the death of love, a very rare occurrence. Sadly, neither of those situations were what happened with Brynden. If anything, love was the death of sanity.”

She blinked. “I… I don’t understand…”

He shook his head, smiling absentmindedly. “Never you mind about it, Lyaella. The point is he is one of the rare few of our House who deserved to be banished here. It’s just a pity I too chose to come here at the same time he did and I never got the chance to see anyone else from our House again until you arrived. At least as far as I knew, anyway.”

It was obvious how he started shuffling through some discarded papers he was done talking about this. Lyaella still didn’t understand what was so bad about Brynden Rivers to make Maester Aemon be so dismissive about him, but she knew better than to ask. “Still, it must’ve been nice being here with him for at least a l-little while. I know he disappeared while out… out ranging one day. It must’ve been hard knowing you never got to say a proper goodbye to him. And… And he l-lost one of the swords of House Targaryen when he disappeared, right? Maester Marlon told us he brought Dark Sister with him when he was sent here.”

She said this as a closing question, for him to simply agree and to afterwards change the subject with hardly a second thought on the matter. So she was rather surprised when he started chuckling. “I don’t deny that happened, Lyaella, but—”

“Maester Aemon? Lyaella? Are you both down here?”

Lyaella squeaked and jumped so hard that Ghost and Sōnar flinched in alarm. She didn’t apologize though, not when her full and undivided attention was riveted on Jon as he poked his head in through the stairwell entrance.

Her heart started pounding, mouth going dry. She’d been trying to avoid her future father ever since he’d yelled at her. He’d made it clear he didn’t want her clinging to him anymore, so it was necessary. It was getting harder and harder to find new places to hide from him, though. Every time she seemed to think she’d found a perfect place out of the way, he’d show up right when she least expected it. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was purposely seeking her out, but that was impossible. He was the one who’d wanted her to stay out of his way, after all.

Still, he’d never appeared during the middle of one of her and Maester Aemon’s language lessons. This was terrible.

Maester Aemon only lifted his head and smiled pleasantly. “Ah, Lord Commander.”

“Good day to you, Maester Aemon. I apologize for interrupting, but—”

“Oh! S-Sōnar, are you getting r-restless in here?!” Lyaella cried, nearly tripping over herself as she scrambled to her feet. “Do… Do you wanna go out for awhile…?”

Thank goodness her dragon knew her so well. She kindly played along and warbled longingly at the stairway exit.

Lyaella gratefully kissed her snout. “O-Okay, girl. We’ll go. Can w-we continue… continue later, M-Maester Aemon?”

Her uncle turned to her, his smile never fading. “Certainly, Lyaella. If you’re dragon wants space, then by all means go ahead. We’ll try again whenever you’re ready.”

“T-Thank you!”

“Wait, Lyaella—”

She ignored Jon and hurriedly collected her things. Sōnar nudged her shoulder as gathered up all the parchment she been using and the books she’d been reading through, but she was barely aware of it. Not even Ghost pawing at her leg broke her frantic trance, but she did notice that her father’s direwolf was right on her heels when she finally collected everything and rushed past Jon to the stairs. While she was beyond happy that Ghost instinctively understood who she was, it still surprised her how between her and Jon, he seemingly favored her more. Even so, she wasn’t complaining. Even if Jon never accepted her now in the past, at least she had Ghost’s companionship. The old direwolf had always been so important to her and Torrhen before he died. It was wonderful to have him back.

Still, with any luck maybe Jon would at least grow to tolerate her presence here at Castle Black sometime soon. Even if he never came to like her, if he just didn’t hate her anymore, that’d be enough. Not that she expected that to happen soon. For now, the best thing she could do was stay out of his way like he wanted. Keep her head down and don’t bother him. That’s what he wanted, after all.

* * *

It took everything Jon had not to sigh as Lyaella zipped past and hurried up the steps, her dragon and Ghost right behind her. The first few times she’d run off when he’d found her, he’d thought nothing of it. After how he’d snapped at her after Slynt’s execution, it was natural she’d want to keep her distance. But now he was getting annoyed. He’d lost his patience with her, but she couldn’t avoid him forever. He needed to talk about that letter with her.

Still, it seemed like that conversation would have to wait a little longer. Lyaella wasn’t the only reason he’d come down here right now, after all. “Shy little thing, that girl,” he murmured, shaking his head as he approached the ancient maester. “Never met a girl so quiet or skittish as her. Hard to believe she’s a distant Valyrian descendant…”

Maester Aemon turned his way, his milky white eyes full of laughter and mirth. “Lyaella’s indeed shy and quiet, but she is a Targaryen regardless of her last name. She just doesn’t know how to be one while still being true to herself.”

He blinked as he sat down, puzzled. “Maester?”

“She’s alone, Lord Commander. Her brother’s the only family she recognized before coming here, and she has no idea where he is. The family she did find here was one she didn’t expect to find, and sadly can’t be of much help to her. Alone, sick, and dying.”

“Don’t say that, Maester Aemon.”

“It’s the truth, Lord Commander. We both know it,” he countered. “Aside from teaching her High Valyrian and being a friendly ear, there’s little else I can do for her. All too soon I’ll be forced to leave her, and as I said that day in the courtyard, a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing… which is why it’s good you’re here too, Lord Snow.”

Jon jerked. “What?”

“She won’t be alone here after I pass on. You’ll take care of her and keep her safe. That’ll make all the difference for her.”

The kind smile on his face just confused him further. What was he talking about? Jon had no relation to Lyaella whatsoever. Was Maester Aemon’s mind being affected by his advanced age? He certainly hoped not. There were things he desperately needed his wisdom and counsel on right now. If his mind was starting to run away on him, he didn’t know who he’d turn to for guidance.

Sighing heavily, he let his eyes wander for a moment before focusing back on the task at hand. “I was hoping you could give me some advice on a few matters.”

Maester Aemon’s smile brightened. “Of course, Lord Commander. Ask away.”

He paused, unsure where to begin. This first matter was technically the more important one, but it was quite complicated to discuss. He didn’t know how Maester Aemon would react. “Well, there’s something that I want to do, or rather… something I know the Night’s Watch must do, but the men will hate me for it. The second I give the order, some will understand, but most will never forgive me.”

To his surprise, Maester Aemon’s smile amused. “Half the men hate you already, Lord Commander, and they already’ll never forgive you for being chosen as the new Lord Commander. Do it.”

“But — But I haven’t even told you yet what it is—”

“Is it in regards to Lyaella?”

“No, it’s—”

“Then it doesn’t matter. I’ll admit I have very particular advice to offer in regards of my distant relative, but other than that, it doesn’t matter that I don’t know what you know needs to be done. You do.” He raised his hand, feeling around blankly for his companion. Swallowing thickly, Jon purposely shifted himself so he could find his shoulder. It startled him how strongly he grasped on. “You will find little joy in your command, I’m afraid, but instead you should find the strength to make the hard choices others won’t, and do what needs to be done. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Let the man be born.”

Jon stayed silent, letting his words sink in. He had no idea what to expect when he came to Maester Aemon, but he’d at least thought he would have heard him out thoroughly about this before giving him counsel. He hadn’t even gotten past the first line of the whole speech he’d prepared before being given his thoughts. It was beyond unexpected… but then again, he wasn’t sure why he was so shocked. Maester Aemon had never ceased to surprise him since he’d been a green boy newly sworn to his vows, and he’d always been one of the few rare people he’d known since leaving Winterfell that always told him the cold, hard truth on things. Other than Mance, the only other man he’d ever known to do the same was his father. Things would be so much simpler if everyone simply told the truth all the time instead of lying left and right.

“Thank you, Maester Aemon. I’ll remember that,” he promised.

“Good, I hope you do. There’s so much I wish could tell you, Lord Commander, good and bad, but alas, not all those things are mine to share.”

“Maester?”

He chuckled, his toothless grin hinting at some unspoken secret. “Should you be fortunate enough to live to be my age, Jon Snow, you find you become the one person the young always come to for advice, or be the one they confide in with their secrets. You also discover the choices you made when you’re young will forever shape the way the next generation sees you when you’re old, and to break that illusion would be unforgivable. All I can say is that the young one who hurried out of here before has entrusted me with some of her most precious secrets, and that I’d sorely betray her trust if I were to say any more than that.“

A smile tugged at Jon’s lips. “Ah, right. Lyaella’s very secretive, I’ll admit.”

“Indeed. She’s a bright girl and recognizes what is and isn’t wise to tell people, but her upbringing makes her reluctant to trust people all together. She’s not nearly as shy and quiet when she does open up and be herself, but one wrong move and she’ll completely withdraw…” he sighed, shaking his head. “If I could, I’d give her aunts and uncle a piece of my mind with all the fire and blood House Targaryen is known for. Whether intentional or not, their negligence in raising that little girl has made her all but afraid of embracing her Targaryen heritage. She’s afraid to speak her mind. That one of the few survivors of my House has been so emotionally damaged by the cruelty of others… it breaks my heart.”

“I’m sorry…”

“No need to apologize, Lord Commander. You are not at fault for how her relatives treated her or her brother, but if you truly wish to show her there’s indeed good people in this world, you must get her to stop running away whenever she sees you. I know you lost your temper with her before, but she’s the type of child who won’t open up unless someone else makes the first move. She’s unwilling to let herself be hurt again.”

Jon grimaced. “That’s actually the other thing I wanted your help with. I… I was hoping you might be willing to ask her thoughts on something for me.”

Maester Aemon blinked. “Are you that against her presence here, Lord Commander? I know it mustn’t have been easy with her following you around, but—”

“No, no. That’s not it,” he quickly protested. “It’s just that Lyaella doesn’t seem willing to stop running away from me anytime soon, and enough time’s been wasted waiting for her to get over that. I need to know her thoughts on this immediately, because if that other matter plays out the way I hope it will, I want to send this letter by a personal messenger straight away. Then hopefully she’ll be on her way to someplace safer than here by the time everything’s resolved.”

“Letter? What letter?”

He rooted around inside his cloak before finding the note in question. Thank goodness he’d brought it with him. He’d taken to carrying it around everywhere recently in the event he finally managed to catch Lyaella before she could run off, but considering who its intended recipient was, it was only fair that someone transcribed anything the blind old man wanted to include in it before it was sent off. “This letter, maester. The one I hope to send to Daenerys Targaryen.”

Despite his blindness, Maester Aemon’s head immediately snapped around, his eyes bulging. “You have my full and undivided attention, Jon Snow. Please, continue.”

“Well, it’s too dangerous for Lyaella to stay here much longer. Between her breathlessness, the dead, and all the dishonorable brothers here at the Wall, it’s just a matter of time before something truly bad happens. I don’t know much about your niece, Maester Aemon, but if the rumors are true, she’s seems like she’s trying to do the right thing… even if she’s going about it the wrong way.”

“The wrong way?”

“Aye. I’m sure things can’t be easy for her trying to end slavery, but she’s too ruthless from what I’ve heard. Still, Lyaella would be safer with her than if she stayed here. And if the stories we’ve heard are true, she’d know more about how to take care of Sōnar than we would. I want to invite her to visit Castle Black so I can see for myself if it’s safe for Lyaella to go with her. I’m more than willing to include anything you would personally like to add into it to Daenerys, maester.”

Maester Aemon sat up straighter, his smile threatening to split his face. “That’s a wonderful idea, Lord Snow, and very wise, too. I’d be delighted to have Sam scribble down my own personal message to my niece. I honestly feared I’d never get the chance to offer her any help before I passed.”

“Maester Aemon…”

“We both know it’s true, Lord Commander. No need to pretend otherwise. Still, this is a fine idea overall, so why come to me for advice?”

“…Because I’m reluctant to send it until I know if Lyaella is okay with this,” Jon reluctantly admitted. “She’s made it clear she doesn’t want to go back to her Northern relatives, and to be honest, I don’t think I’d release her back into their custody if they came here looking for her. Not after what you said about how her breathing condition’s been handled in the past.”

He nodded firmly, brows furrowing in stern agreement. “I hope I meet the maester who made her take that horrible tonic someday in the seven heavens. I’m old, Lord Snow, but I’ll be sure to beat him down into the seven hells for force feeding her that sickening remedy.”

Jon cleared his throat to hide his snort. “Aye, and she also doesn’t want to go with Stannis. I don’t know why since she’s friendly with his daughter and he was willing to spare her, but she turned him down. Still, that’s all she’s said. She’s never distinctly said she wants us to contact the Dragon Queen or not. Maybe she’d rather I didn’t, or maybe she’d prefer to reach out to the Martell’s instead. Maybe neither of them. I want to know if she’s okay with me sending this before I do anything.”

“Very kind of you, Lord Commander, but I’m afraid it’s not my place to get involved here. You must be the one who asks her thoughts on this.”

A heavy sigh escaped him and he looked away. “Maester Aemon, she won’t even stay in the same room as me anymore, and she’s been having Edd work with her on her swordplay in the training yard instead of me. How am I supposed to talk to her when she won’t let me?”

“Well, how have you been trying to approach her, Lord Snow? As the stern Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, or as the kind young man who calmed her down from her terror when she first came here?”

“What?”

The maester closed his eyes, his face thoughtful. “Lyaella’s hardly been given comfort or compassion from adults, and upon coming here, she’s been treated much better than I presume she ever has on a daily basis. Granted, it’s only from a few people, but it’s still a vast improvement. But then you yelled at her after Janos Slynt’s execution.”

“I didn’t mean to snap at her like that. I just… I had to set an example to the men. They needed to know what the consequences were for not obeying me . She… She just came up to me at a bad time and didn’t get it when I tried to shake her off. I didn’t mean to lose my temper, though…”

“I understand, Lord Snow. I’ve been the maester of the Night’s Watch for many decades, so I know how important it is for leaders to act strong and aloof in front of others. I’m not saying it was wrong to do the same with Lyaella right then, but she’s still just a child. She’s the blood of the dragon, but her upbringing has made her inner fire dim and weaken. She needs to be around people who can help her burn brightly, rousing the dragon within.”

“Aye, she’s way too shy. No confidence…”

“Indeed, someone has to teach her how to be brave and believe in herself. Someone patient who can empathize with her,” he turned to face Jon again, smiling kindly. “She’s certainly become well acquainted with Ghost, Lord Commander. Perhaps she needs a wolf. A wolf with no surname, just like her.”

Jon sucked in a breath. Was Maester Aemon trying to say he shouldn’t send Lyaella to Daenerys Targaryen? Why? He’d agreed that contacting his niece was a smart plan, so why wouldn’t he want Lyaella to go to her? It wasn’t safe for Lyaella at Castle Black. Period. Was he overthinking things? Was he suggesting he should try bolstering her confidence until the Dragon Queen came to collect her…?

“Right. I’ll, uh… I’ll keep that in mind, maester,” he said, shoving the letter away before pushing back his chair. “Thank you…”

“One last thing,” said Maester Aemon, making him pause. “It’s clear Lyaella’s very hurt by how everyone aside from myself and young Shireen Baratheon treats her dragon. It’s not a monster in her eyes, or dangerous. It’s her sister and dearest friend. I think she’d be very happy if she saw someone here trying to befriend Sōnar. She’s become very close with Ghost, so perhaps you could try spending time with her friend in return? And besides… fire kills wights. If you truly intend to contact my niece the Dragon Queen, Lord Snow, it’d be wise to become more familiar with dragons in general. I have a feeling my niece and her dragons will be vital in defeating the dead when they march South.”

He bit his lip. “I… I’m not so sure about that idea, but — but I’ll consider it. Thank you.”

And with that, Jon swiftly headed back up the stone stairs. He could see and understand where Maester Aemon was coming from, but he honestly didn’t know if he’d follow his advice on that. It was a good idea for getting Lyaella to open up around him again, but even so… Sōnar was a dragon. One wrong move around her and he’d be devoured or roasted alive. Aside from the few times he’d been forced to go near her, he’d been purposely trying to steer clear of Lyaella’s white-scaled friend. Still, he supposed he should at least keep it in mind if all else failed. He couldn’t send that letter off until he finally talked to Lyaella.

But that conversation would have to wait just a little longer. First, he needed to have someone bring Tormund up to his office to discuss his idea regarding the Free Folk.

* * *

Her quill feather fluttered as she tapped the tip repeatedly against the parchment, frustrated beyond words. “Throne… throne…” Lyaella murmured, furrowing her brows. “What rhymes with ‘throne…?’”

Sōnar rumbled and craned her long neck around to peer over her shoulder. Her movements however cast a deep shadow over the parchment, making it impossible to decipher the what her mistress had written already. It was so dark inside Ghost’s rickety shed without adding in extra shadows from one another on top of it. She already was sitting on the ground right next to the biggest hole in the walls to be able to work in a solid stream of direct sunlight. No need to make it even harder for herself by blocking out what little light she had to use.

Lyaella sighed, faking anger as she playfully shoved her friend away. “Back off, girl. You’re blocking my light.” Sōnar hooted and reared back, affronted. “Don’t give me that look. You know I can’t write without—” she cut herself off, gasping as a white-scaled tail pointedly smacked her arm. “Ah! Sōnar!”

Her dragon only nudged her snout in her hair in return. Anyone else would assume Sōnar was trying to apologize, but Lyaella knew better. She’d seen that mischievous twinkle in those ice blue eyes countless times before.

“No, stop that. You’re not gonna make me drop my guard this time, so stop.”

Sōnar squawked, blinking repeatedly.

Lyaella folded her arms, fighting to keep a straight face. “No, girl. I’m not falling for it this time, so just quit it.”

She warbled sadly, drooping her head.

Her heart ached at her friends’ disappointment, but she knew she had to be strong. Sōnar was certainly much better at minding her manners than Shadow most days, but every now and then she had a tendency to be exactly like her brother’s direwolf, and in the worst possible way. All those years of the two of them growing up together with her and Torrhen let them rub off on each other, and this habit was a thousand times worse than when Shadow drenched Torrhen in kisses.

Sticking out her tongue at her honorary sister, she glanced back down at her parchment page on her lap. She’d been trying to scribble down the lyrics for the new song she’d inspired to write after Maester Aemon showed her the Targaryen music box. The first few stanzas were relatively easy, so she’d breezed through the opening verse with hardly any trouble. It was probably going to be the shortest song she’d ever written when she was done, as it was the repetitiveness of the refrain that she was emphasizing in this piece rather than the verses. Trouble was, she was only using the refrain as the bulk of the piece because of the first and last lines. The two lines in the middle were what she was really struggling with. Not to mention she was considering reworking a few lines in the verses she’d already finished. Her gut told her that this rough draft on the verses wasn’t nearly good enough yet. They needed to be redone when she was done with the refrain.

Clicking her tongue, she dipped her quill into the ink pot and jotted down a test phrase off to the side. Blowing on it for good measure, she readily cleared her throat. _“A cold Iron Throne,”_ she light sang, bouncing her hand in tempo with each syllable. _“The five kings claim their own…_ Yes, yes that works. It’s six syllables instead of five, but it works. What do you two think?”

Ghost rose from his bedding of tatty blankets and stretched before sitting up properly. He stared at her curiously, red eyes blinking. Then, for no apparent reason, he turned to look at her lyre, propped up beside her against the wall. Sōnar trilled, pushing it closer to her with a friendly nudge.

Lyaella frowned. “If you’re both trying to get me to play accompaniment with those phrases—” Sōnar chirped and Ghost’s tail began wagging “—there’s no point. I have a loose idea how the beginning might sound, but I don’t know what the rest of the score will be yet. Torrhen’s the musically gifted one. I’m just the lyricist.”

Both of them were unfazed by her protests and kept staring at her expectantly.

Lyaella’s frown only deepened, and she turned back to her unfinished lyrics. “Please… I‘ll think about playing it later. Right now, I really need to—”

Sōnar suddenly bounded forward, and before Lyaella could even jump, her dragon shoved her whole head directly at Lyaella’s legs until she tilted forwards. Sliding down the length of Sōnar’s neck until she was sitting backwards on her body, her dragon began walking around in the most absurdly bounciest manner.

Lyaella shrieked, bending over to hug the sides of her friend’s wide rump to hang on. “S-Sōnar! Sōnar, stop! N-No, put me down!”

Her dragon warbled, prancing harder.

“I’m serious, Sōnar! Stop it! G-Ghost, help!”

The direwolf did nothing to assist her, though. If anything, his tail just wagged harder in amusement. Sōnar chirped appreciatively.

“Sōnar, e-enough! Put me down or… or I’ll—!”

She cut herself off as the shed door flew open. “Goodness! What’s goin’ on in here?”

Sōnar squawked and halted in surprise. That was all Lyaella needed to take action. With a half-hearted kick of her heels as punishment for her naughtiness, the little girl scrambled off the dragon. Sōnar moaned as she stomped around to glare at her directly, not even pausing to see who had entered the tiny enclosure.

“What have I told you before about doing that, Sōnar?! Bad dragon!” Sōnar bent her head, trying to nudge her apologetically. Lyaella shoved her snout away. “No! That’s not gonna work this time! I’ve told you before to not shove me on you like that! Bad girl!”

Ghost cocked his head, mystified by her sudden anger and confidence. As was their other spectator. “Never thought I’d see yeh yell at yer dragon, Lyaella. Let alone yell at all.”

She glanced to the door. Gilly was there with a basket in hand, watching her curiously.

“G-Gilly,” she said, forcing a nervous smile. “Did… Did we bother you? W-Were we too noisy?”

The kind Wildling woman set down her load and cautiously entered. “Not at all. I was just takin’ care of some chores and heard the ruckus. Is everythin’ all right?”

“Yes, we’re… we’re fine. S-Sōnar was just being naughty. Sorry f-for bothering you…” Lyaella flushed at her sudden shyness and averted her eyes. It was so stupid how she acted, being able to talk normally when around Sōnar and Shadow yet automatically reverted back to her hesitant stuttering when someone else approached. Why did she have to be so shy? It was downright embarrassing sometimes.

“No, no. It’s no bother,” Gilly assured her, smiling brightly. “How ‘bout comin’ out of there, Lyaella? It’s very dark. Yeh don’t even have a candle.”

“I’m fine, really. I… I’m used t-to hiding away in dark p-places like this…”

Gilly’s lips parted. Lyaella’s face grew hot as she focused back on her lyrics. It was humiliating to admit, but it was the truth. Whenever Torrhen couldn’t be around to stand up for her when bullies or adults would become downright horrible towards her, she’d generally take Sōnar and hide away in the crypts for a while. It was the one place in Winterfell where none of them could follow her, as only those of House Stark were permitted entrance. Sometimes she’d only have to stay down there for a few minutes before Torrhen came bounding in and dragging her back out. Sometimes she stayed down there for hours before venturing out alone. Or if she couldn’t make it to the crypts in time, she’d find a nice little nock in between the corridors or stonework to hide herself until people wandered away. There were so many great places to hide in Winterfell if one knew where to look, some of which were so obscure and unnoticeable that no one would see them unless they knew to look for it. It was good to do that sometimes instead of running to her brother. Torrhen had his own troubles while growing up in that wretched castle, and it wasn’t fair to make him protect her all the time. Now he wasn’t here. She was all alone aside from Sōnar and Ghost.

She dipped her quill back into the ink pot and jotted down a test phrase in one of the verses, but before she could start brainstorming possible phrases for the next line, Gilly purposefully strode forward.

“Used to it or not, yer not spendin’ the rest of the day in here.” She plucked away the quill and dragged her to her feet. “Yeh’ve been hidin’ away too much lately. Ever since yer breathlessness, yeh’ve been avoidin’ everyone. Yeh don’t even come help Shireen and me with my readin’ lessons.”

“I-I-I’m sorry, Gilly. I didn’t… I didn’t mean t-to stop helping you, but—”

“Yeh can help me now. I’ve gotta pass out food to the Free Folk prisoners. Come with me.”

“W-What? But… But I—”

“Come on.”

Collecting her scattered sheets of parchment, ink pot, and lyre, she passed them all to Lyaella and steered her to the door. Lyaella was too startled by her insistence to protest, and could only whistle over her shoulder at Sōnar and Shadow to follow before they were outside.

“Pull up yer scarf, Lyaella,” Gilly said, picking up her basket. “Yeh know what Maester Aemon told yeh.”

“Mmm,” she murmured, tugging it up her face. Maester Aemon had been adamant about her keeping a scarf over her mouth and nose all the time while she was outside nowadays. Something to do with warming up the cold, stale air she inhaled to ward off coughing and wheezing. It didn’t make much sense to her, but she didn’t mind all that much. It only really annoyed her when she practiced her swordplay. “Thank you, b-by the way. For… For knitting it…”

“It was no trouble. I was happy to… though I am sorry ‘bout yer dress.”

“It’s all right, really.”

“No, it’s not. It’s my fault it’s like that now.”

Lyaella glanced down at herself. Her blue dress had been so filthy after tumbling in the sooty snow that terrible night. Gilly had been nice enough to change her into her newly sewn tunic and britches for swordplay training and wash it for her… but she’d realized too late that she’d done so in the wooden tub the newest Night’s Watch recruits had been using to dye their clothes.

Instead of being wintry blue, her dress was now the same pitch black as the clothes of every other man in Castle Black. Upon realizing the accident, Gilly had tried for hours to rinse out the dye, but it was no use. Her dress would never be the same wintry blue again unless it was dyed back to its old shade, and sadly there was no way to get such dye unless they imported it from down South, which obviously would never happen. At least the white snowflake embroidery around the edge of her collar and sleeves had been saved from the black dye. It’d been too late by the time Gilly realized what happened to save her whole dress, but she did manage to rinse out enough of the dye from those areas to salvage them to a slightly muted gray color. Not the same as before, but still better than being bland black.

“It’s… It’s not a big d-deal, Gilly,” she insisted, forcing a smile as they trudged past some men sparring. “I don’t mind it being black.”

“Still, I feel terrible.”

“D-Don’t be. I… I kinda like it like this.”

Gilly blinked, surprised. “Truly?”

“Uh-huh,” she nodded. “My relatives… they n-never let me and Tory wear clothes in our Targaryen House colors b-black and red. I’m a little sad my dress’s not blue anymore… but I’m n-not upset it’s black now. I’m okay with this, really.”

“Well, if yeh say so,” she murmured, both of them pausing as the men training cut in front of them during the heat of battle. They returned to where they were originally upon noticing them there, but Lyaella’s cheeks caught fire upon catching their attention and bowed her head, too shy to meet their eyes. “None of that, now,” Gilly went on, urging her along before she was ready. “There’s no need for it.”

“For what?”

“That. Back there. Bein’ all shy and quiet whenever people stare at yeh.”

“I… I can’t help it…”

“Yeh can’t go through life bein’ afraid of everythin’, Lyaella. Especially not about what people think about yeh. I mean, look at me. I’m from beyond the Wall. Aside from Sam, Jon, and some others, everyone in Castle Black hates me and Little Sam. They only see me as one of my father’s wives and—”

“W-What?!” Lyaella gasped, head snapping up. “You… You married your own father?!”

Gilly tensed, her face suddenly growing very fixed. “Aye, I did. I’d appreciate it if yeh pretended yeh never heard that, though.”

“Why?”

“Never mind why,” she insisted, quickening her pace. “Come on. The Free Folk are waitin’ for us.”

Lyaella blinked, and scurried along after her. She could tell Gilly didn’t really want to talk about this, but her thoughts were a jumbled mess with only one thing being adamantly clear to her right then. She pressed her lips together, trying to figure out how to best phrase her next question. “Little Sam… is… is he…?”

“That’s none of yer business, Lyaella,” Gilly said shortly, tightening her grasp on her basket. “Let it go.”

“I’m not j-judging you, Gilly. I just… I just want to know if you wish Little Sam hadn’t been born.”

The woman stopped short, turning to her abruptly with wide eyes. “What? What in the world makes yeh think that? I… I love my son, no matter where he came from.”

Lyaella relaxed. “Good. I’m g-glad you think that.”

“What?”

“I… I was w-worried you might be ashamed of Little Sam because… because of him b-being born of incest. People in Westeros h-hate Targaryens because of the incest in our family. I’m glad y-you still love your son despite that.”

“I could never be ashamed of him. I’d go through everythin’ I did all over again if it meant he would be here. He means everythin’ to me.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Gilly smiled as they approached the door to the storeroom where the other Wildlings were being held, and knocked politely. _“Heil, ek færð þinn matr fyrir í dag.”_

 _“Þú gerði? góð.”_ called out a voice inside. _“Kominnr.”_

“What’s that?” Lyaella asked, expression muddled. “I… I don’t understand…”

“It’s the Old Tongue, Lyaella. It’s the common language amon’ the Free Folk,” Gilly explained, shifting her basket to unlock the door. “I’m not surprised yeh don’t know it. I know yeh say yer a Northerner, but almost every Southerner has forgotten the ancient language of my people.”

“S-Southerner…?”

“It’s what we call anyone born on yer side of the Wall. If yer’re not from the True North, yer a Southerner. That’s just how we see it.”

Lyaella blinked. “Oh.”

The Wildlings were quite cramped in the tiny storeroom. There was at least fifteen of them squeezed together in this first room alone, and Lyaella knew that there were even more prisoners in two other storerooms and some down in the Castle Black cells. They smiled gratefully to Gilly as she passed out their rations for the day, murmuring their hello’s and thank you’s in their strange language.

Signaling to Sōnar and Ghost to stay outside for now, Lyaella stayed next to the door. Gilly was very kind to her, but she hadn’t spent any time around the Wildling prisoners since Mance Rayder’s execution. She’d been avoiding them as much as possible, as all the stories she’d heard over the years regarding them only making a temporary peace with the rest of the North because of the dead was in the forefront of her mind. Apparently after the dead were defeated, they all left to go back beyond the Wall… though occasionally some of them would sneak back over to loot and pillage the smallfolk. Wildlings were dangerous, plain and simple. As much as she hated Queen Sansa, Lyaella couldn’t deny how hard it had to be for her aunt between trying to fight off Queen Yara’s ironborn attacks and the North’s food shortages. Dealing with the occasional Wildling raids couldn’t have been easy, especially since they happened so rarely it wasn’t worth reassembling the Night’s Watch to deal with them.

Shuffling her feet idly, she chanced a curious glance around the room, jumping when she noticed a particularly grungy-looking Wildling man looking at her. “Aren’t yeh the Dragon Girl? What’re yeh doin’ here, visitin’ us?”

The others all suddenly glanced her way, noticing her for the first time. “Aye,” nodded a woman, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Yeh’re on the crows side, right? Or that Southern cunt king Stannis? They send yeh here? They want yeh to burn us alive like they tried to with Mance?”

Lyaella’s cheeks flamed red, and she involuntarily stepped back. “I… I… Well, I…”

“This is Lyaella,” Gilly said kindly, dragging her closer. “She’s only here because I asked her to help me. Here—” she pulled out two loaves of bread from her basket, breaking them in half before handing them to Lyaella “—pass these around.”’

Nodding slowly, Lyaella silently did as she said and helped to distribute the bread. It was only when they were drawing close to emptying the basket that she heard voices approaching the storeroom.

“Yeh’re serious about this, King Crow?”

“Aye. We both know what’s coming, Tormund. If we keep fighting each other, none of us will survive.”

She froze. That first voice for sure belonged to a Wildling judging by his accent, but that other voice was definitely Jon’s. Why was he coming to the cells now, while she was here? Was he intentionally following her? She still wasn’t ready to see him yet! Shoving the roll in her hands at the closest Wildling, she scrambled behind him to hide.

“Oy! What’re yeh—?!”

“Please!” she whispered, crouching down. “I’m not here! All of you, please pretend I’m not here!”

The Wildlings were baffled by her behavior, but Gilly threw her a pitying look before casually passing out more bread. Less than a minute later the heavy footfalls entered the storeroom. “Yeh better not be lyin’ to me, King Crow. If this is a plot to kill all my people—”

“It’s not. I swear it’s not.”

“Better not be. If it is, I’ll come back as one of them dead fuckers and tear yeh to pieces!”

Jon half-heartedly snorted. “I’ll speak to Stannis about borrowing his fleet. As for your other condition…”

“It comes. End of story.”

“I can’t agree to that, though. It’s not—”

“Aye, it’s not yers, but I won’t go otherwise.”

“I’ll ask, but I can’t say what’ll happen. I can only ask.”

“Fine.”

Lyaella held her breath until Jon headed back out. Sighing with relief, she slowly stood and shuffled back around the man to continue helping Gilly. The new Wildling gaped incredulously when he finally noticed her, his eyes bulging from his thick, tangled red beard, but the other Wildlings just gave her puzzled looks. The man she’d been hiding behind was especially confused. “Yeh mind tellin’ us what that was all about?”

“I… I j-just didn’t want him to know I was here, that’s all.”

Gilly furrowed her brows sadly while the other Wildlings shrugged away her behavior. The new Wildling who’d been brought in however cocked his head, looking almost amused.

“Oh? Why’s that?” He chortled, moving closer. “Did yeh come here to free us, perhaps?”

“F-Free you…?”

“Aye. We don’t know much about yeh, lass, but from what we’ve heard them crows and the cunts in that Stannis fucker’s army say, yer the Dragon Girl, which means yeh must be connected to that so-called Dragon Queen across the sea. The one who’s somehow freein’ people. Yeh gonna have yer dragon set us free like her?”

Lyaella squeaked and shook her head. “N-No. I’m sorry but… but I c-can’t do that. The Dragon Queen… she’s a much stronger person than I am. I couldn’t imagine d-doing something like that… I’m sorry.” She slowly backed away to the door, readying herself to run. They were going to get upset with her now. They were going to yell and attack her until she agreed to get Sōnar to set them free. She mentally braced herself for the onslaught—

“Are yeh afraid of us, girl?” Tormund chuckled, eyes twinkling. “Yeh think we’re gonna chop yeh up and boil yeh for supper?”

The others snorted, watching her with equal mirth. Lyaella just stared, squeezing her lyre tighter. “Uh, w-well—”

“Relax, I’m only jokin’. None of us are Thenn’s, and I didn’t expect yeh to agree with me,” he went on, moving to lean up against a barrel. “Yeh can stay here if yeh want, or yeh can go. We’re the Free Folk, lass, so we’re not gonna force yeh to do anythin’ yeh don’t want to. Yer free to do as yeh wish with us.”

She blinked repeatedly, the tension within her slowly fading away. This Tormund man seemed almost… kind. Friendly. Not at all the cruel, savage brute she’d been expecting him to be. And the other Wildlings weren’t acting that way either. They were smiling and watching her curiously, not narrowing their eyes and discretely whispering to each other on how best to slit her throat. Even if they hadn’t been planning to hurt her, it was still surprising they weren’t glaring at her or watching her suspiciously. It was strange how kind they all were, especially since they were Wildlings.

Still, she kept her guard up. Gilly she knew and trusted, but not the others. For all she knew, they could have been playing on Gilly’s kindness and immediate trust from being a Wildling herself to lure her here. What if they wanted to use her as a hostage to ensure the Night’s Watch forced Stannis to free them? Maybe they wanted to force her to have Sōnar threaten everyone outside so they could leave without a fight. Anything was possible.

Gilly somehow understood what she was thinking, and turned to her with a warm smile. “There’s no need to be scared, Lyaella. Yeh’re safe here, I promise. They won’t hurt yeh, and if one of them does, all yeh have to do is scream. The Night’s Watch will come runnin’, and yer dragon and Ghost will break down the door.”

True, very true. She loosened her grip around her lyre and moved to sit on a wooden crate a few steps away. She was willing to relax a little, but in case something bad did happen, she was still close enough to the door to get out fast. Maybe she was being overly paranoid, but she couldn’t help it. Growing up the way she had made her wary of strangers in general.

Tormund seemed to realize she was still on edge, and smiled kindly. “Lass, I swear we’re not gonna hurt yeh. Yer not a crow nor with that cunt Stannis. We’ve got no reason to hate yeh… we don’t even understand why all them kneelers out there are against yeh just for bein’ alive.”

Lyaella tilted her head, brow quirking. “Crow…? K-Kneelers…?”

“Crow’s what we call all them men in black out there. From far away, they look like crows,” said a Wildling man somewhere in his middle-ages. “And kneeler’s what we call all yer lot South of the Wall. Yeh kneel for yer kings and queens, lords and ladies. We do not kneel.”

“What?” said Lyaella, even more puzzled. “But… But Gilly said you called us all S-Southerner’s, and that m-man Stannis was gonna burn… Mance Rayder for being your king—”

“We call yeh all kneelers and Southerner’s,” said Tormund, his smile dying. “Either way’s fine. And Mance was the king we chose. We followed him ‘cause we believed him.”

“Oh…” she murmured, sensing the somber mood. “I’m s-sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s fine, lass. We know yeh didn’t,” said a woman, waving away her words. “If anythin’, we admire yeh for stickin’ up for him.”

“Pardon?”

“What yeh said back there, when that fuckin’ king tried burnin’ him alive. Yer the only one there who said the obvious. That killin’ him like that was wrong.”

“It’s a sad day when a child has the guts to be brave like that,” Tormund added, earning a round of nods from the others. “We all were thinkin’ it, and yet it was yeh who said it, and we don’t even know yeh. Us Free Folk owe yeh our thanks.”

Lyaella could only stare. “I… I wasn’t trying to b-be brave… I was just saying the truth, that’s all.”

“Exactly, and if there’s one thin’ we’ve learned about Southerner’s over the years, it’s that they all lie. But yeh didn’t. Yeh told the truth of what everyone was thinkin’. We respect that.”

“Aye, especially since burnin’ people must be easy for yeh with that beast out there, Dragon Girl,” added another man. “Where’d yeh find that thing, anyway?”

Lyaella tensed, her whole body growing rigid. “Sōnar’s my sister, just like Shadow’s mine and Tory’s brother. She’s not a thing. Don’t call her that ever again… And we know very well how p-people lie to get whatever they want. Our parents… they’re d-dead because our relatives are cruel and g-greedy. We won’t ever be liars like them. We always tell the truth.”

Tormund chortled. “Glad to hear it, lass, though we are sorry ‘bout yer folks. But yeh didn’t answer the question. Where’d yer friend come from? Last time we Free Folk saw a dragon…” he paused, closing his eyes to think. Then he let out a low whistle. “It’s almost a legend for our people.”

“A legend? Wait… are you s-saying there’s some sort of ice d-dragon beyond the Wall?” Lyaella asked. “If you all really want to get on this side of the Wall s-so… so badly, why not use that?”

The Wildlings all heartily laughed. “No, no, lass. Yeh misunderstand. There’s no dragons out in the True North. Not one we know of, anyway.”

“Aye, if there were, we’d’ve stormed Castle Black years ago. Probably before yeh were even born.”

Even Gilly chuckled as she stepped forward “What he means is many generations ago, some of the Free Folk claim they saw a dragon flyin’ over the Wall.”

“They… They did? Truly?”

“Aye,” said Tormund. “Must’ve been a hundred years ago, but our people say they saw a great silver dragon flyin’ over Castle Black like yers does all the time. Our people were terrified. Thought the crows were gonna hunt them down and burn them alive. But it never flew past the Wall. It’d land on top sometimes, but never flew over it. Not even when the woman ridin’ it tried commandin’ it to go over.”

Something about this story sounded very familiar to Lyaella, but she wasn’t sure why. It took her a few seconds before she jerked in realization. “Silverwing!”

The Wildlings and Gilly stared at her blankly.

Lyaella blushed. “I… I t-think you might be talking about the dragon Silverwing,” she murmured. “She was… She was ridden by Good Queen Alysanne m-many years ago. She’d been touring the N-North with her dragon and visited Castle Black. I remember reading she tried f-flying over the Wall with… Silverwing a couple times, b-but her dragon refused to f-fly past it.”

“Huh. Maybe… but why’d she want to fly over?”

“I… I think she just wanted to explore, b-but I don’t know. That wasn’t… w-wasn’t mentioned in my history book.”

“Hmm… if she was only explorin’, then us Free Folk weren’t in danger. Our ancestors were ready to band together and storm Castle Black if it dared come near our clans.”

“Aye, and even if that Silverwing dragon was three times bi’er than yers is, we’d’ve fought to the last man standin’. We weren’t gonna risk it hurtin’ our people.”

Lyaella sucked in a breath, suddenly very nervous. “Are you… Are you planning to do the same to Sōnar?”

Tormund did a double take. “What? No, ‘course not. We’ve all seen it’s tame unless yeh’re threatened, and yeh’re not with the crows. So lon’ as yeh don’t burn us, we don’t care what yeh or yer dragon does.”

Her shoulders sagged in relief. “Good, you w-worried me there.”

“I don’t know what yeh’ve heard ‘bout us Free Folk, Dragon Girl, but we’re not gonna hurt yeh so long as yeh don’t hurt us. Our ancestors were only scared ‘cause they thought the crows were plannin’ to kill us with that dragon. That’s the difference.”

“Why do you… you keep calling yourselves ‘Free Folk?’ I mean… you’re Wildlings, right?”

“That’s just a name yer people gave us. Our true name is—”

“Oh! There you are, Lyaella!”

Lyaella jumped and whipped around. Shireen was standing right in the open doorway, smiling brightly to her.

“Shireen!” Gilly exclaimed, setting down her empty basket as she hurried forward. “What’re yeh doin’ here? Do yer folks know yer here?”

“Hello, Gilly. No, they don’t know I’m here, but I’ll be leaving in just a second. I just came to find Lyaella.” Darting around the Wildling woman, the Baratheon princess and walked straight up to the other small girl, frozen in surprise. “I’ve been looking all over for you. We’ve hardly talked at all since you were sick.”

Lyaella fidgeted, eyes darting in every direction as she avoided looking at her former friend. “H-Hello…”

Shireen was oblivious to her discomfort and only beamed. “You’ve been practically a ghost since you got sick. It’s impossible to find you these days, and that’s surprising, especially when you have Sōnar and Lord Commander Snow’s direwolf for company. It’s name’s Ghost, right? Have you been making yourself scarce like his namesake to imitate him?”

“Um—”

“I must say, I’ve been running all over to find you! You never came to talk to me after your whole ordeal, so I’ve been worried! I mean, I get why you might not have wanted company right after everything happened when you still weren’t feeling well, but it’s been ages now! If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were avoiding me!”

“I—”

“Did I upset you at all? If so, I’m sorry. But even so, you shouldn’t just avoid me just because you were angry with me for some reason. We could’ve talked things over! Was that it?”

“W-Well—”

“And now it’s—”

“Lass, yeh talk more in a minute than yer friend can breathe! Give her a moment to say somethin’, will yeh?”

Tormund’s words made Shireen jump, and after an instinctual glance between him and Lyaella’s wide-eyed stare she backed down, giggling halfheartedly. “Sorry, I was just excited. Take your time, Lyaella.”

It took Lyaella a few seconds to process this before reddening in shame. “I’m… I’m sorry if I upset you, Shireen. I didn’t mean too…”

“That’s all right, I’m just glad I found you now!”

“Y-Yes, it was nice… nice to see you again. Goodbye, now!”

Gilly and the Wildlings all blinked. Lyaella ignored them as she hopped down from the crates and made a quick, clumsy curtsy. It didn’t matter what they thought. She needed to leave before Stannis or Selyse found her with their daughter and got angry with her for being near Shireen again. Nodding politely, she scampered to the door.

But Shireen wasn’t that easily deterred. “Hey, wait!” she cried, snatching the edge of her gray cloak. “Don’t go! I just got here!”

She bent her head to hide her frown. “I k-know, that’s why I have to leave.”

“What do you mean? Are you mad at me, Lyaella?”

“No…”

“Then what’s the problem? I thought we were friends.”

“I… Well—”

“Aren’t we friends?”

Lyaella bit her lip, twiddling her fingers as she slowly turned back around. “I… I liked us being friends, but… but I’ve been embarrassed about m-my weak lungs and how I acted that night. I didn’t… I d-didn’t know what to say…”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Lyaella. You couldn’t control that. I don’t think of you differently because of it.”

“It’s not just that… I-I-I also thought I wasn’t supposed to be around you anymore…”

“What? Why would—?”

“You’re mother made it clear that I s-shouldn’t… shouldn’t be around you anymore. And since I t-turned down your father’s offer to help him, I thought he’d get mad at me too if we kept p-playing together.”

Shireen blinked repeatedly. She glanced over at Gilly and the Wildlings for a moment before turning back to her. “That’s it?”

“W-What?” Lyaella tilted her head, puzzled. “What d’you mean?”

“Just what I said! That’s it?”

“I don’t understand…”

“That’s it? That’s the reason?” she clarified. “You’ve been avoiding me just because of that?”

“W-Well, yes…”

The little doe shook her head, eyes wide with disbelief. “I knew you were shy when we met, but I didn’t know you were this timid, Lyaella! You were avoiding me just because you were afraid of my parents?”

Her cheeks burned even hotter. “Shireen, I—”

“Don’t try denying it. Everyone knows I’m right,” she exclaimed, marching forward. “I know you’re a Snow, but you’re still a Targaryen, Lyaella. You need to be more confident and stand up for yourself.”

“But your father… he’s trying to take the Iron Throne. I c-can’t just—”

“Yes, but so long as you’re here at Castle Black, you’re untouchable. You should’ve just ignored my mother. She’s always mean, so it’s not like she’s going to be extra cruel to you. And if my father says anything, I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

“But—”

“Today’s the last day we can play together, Lyaella, and I wanted to hear you sing and play your lyre at least once. I overheard my father talking to the Onion Knight about finally marching on to Winterfell tomorrow. Please don’t let my parents scare you off from being around me! And besides, you promised you’d play for me, remember?”

Lyaella stiffened. Tomorrow? Stannis was going to have his army pull out tomorrow? Exactly how long had she been here at Castle Black exactly? Surely not too long, right? Hardhome wouldn’t be coming up anytime soon, would it? She hoped not. Even though she’d yet to see anything to convince her the army of the dead was real, it would still be a slap in the face for her if it turned out that major battle was just around the corner and she’d done nothing so far to try and prevent it from happening. Even so, if Stannis was going to leave Castle Black, that mean Shireen’s death would be happening sometime in the coming weeks. There was nothing she could do to stop that without jeopardizing Stannis’ necessary death, but it still hurt that her friend would be gone. Her first and only friend aside from Torrhen, Shadow, and Sōnar.

She bit her lip, then hesitantly nodded. “Okay.”

“Really? Thank you!”

“But one song only! I-I-I really only ever play for myself or with Torrhen. I’m not used to an audience…”

A heavy guffaw made her jump and turn back to the Wildlings. “Dunno what a lyre is, but if yeh like singin’, yeh like music, don’t yeh?” Tormund asked. “What’s the point of music if yeh don’t let others hear? My older girl’s barely older than yeh both, and she’s always playin’ her ocarina in front of everyone. Drives me crazy!”

The others laughed, and even Gilly snickered. Lyaella only went redder. “I… Well, I—”

“Come on,” Shireen said, seizing her hand. “You can play outside, that way Sōnar and Ghost can sit with us!”

Lyaella couldn’t even protest before the Baratheon princess dragged her out. Sure enough, her dragon and future father’s direwolf immediately perked up from where they’d been sitting, but aside from giving them both small pats, Lyaella barely even acknowledged them. Her main focus was on all the men in the Night’s Watch and Stormlands army that were loitering about in the courtyard. Though only a handful glanced over to them, Lyaella couldn’t help but feel on edge.

Tugging her towards some barrels, Shireen plopped down and smiled as Tormund and some other Wildlings poked their heads out of the storeroom windows to watch. Lyaella took a seat next to her as Sōnar sat down on her other side to nuzzle her with her snout. Ghost meanwhile settled down directly in front of them, watching inquisitively.

Self-consciously tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Lyaella turned to Shireen. “Do you… Do you have any requests that you’d like me to play?”

“Not really. I just really wanted to hear you play once, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Lyaella bit her lip, then glanced over at the Wildlings. “What about y-you? Do any… Do any of you have any requests?”

“Yeh wouldn’t know our songs.”

“Do what yeh like.”

“We don’t care.”

Gilly appeared in the entrance. “We like music, Lyaella, but we don’t know any Southern songs. Just sing and play what yeh like.”

“B-But… But I don’t know what to play. I wasn’t expecting to give a p-performance right now…” Everyone fell silent at that, but suddenly Ghost stood and padded his way up to her, nosying her side. “Oh — G-Ghost, stop that! I don’t mind giving you p-pets and scratches, but — whoops!”

His antics made her sheets of unfinished lyrics slip out from inside her cloak. Lyaella hurried to collect them before the wind could send them flying all over the mucky courtyard.

Shireen managed to grab a few on her own, and she scanned the pages curiously as Lyaella tried gathering the rest. “What’s this? A poem?”

“Lyrics. Just lyrics I’ve been working on for my own song.”

“Really? I didn’t know you wrote music.”

“It’s just… just a silly hobby. Tory writes the score. I d-do the lyrics.”

“That’s still interesting. Why not sing this, then?”

Lyaella squeaked and nearly slipped on a patch of ice. “W-What?! But… But it’s not finished yet! And other than a f-few notes in the beginning, there’s no music yet. I started writing it after I got sick the other night, so… so I can’t use m-my lyre after a certain point.”

Shireen waved away her words. “That’s all right, just play as much as you can. And I can tell you whether what you’ve done in the lyrics so far sounds good or not. I’ll give you my honest opinion on them.”

She bit her lip, letting her eyes wander. She didn’t want to do this, sharing her song before it was ready, or at least not like this. It was one thing to show Torrhen her ideas for lyrics for a new song and then sing them out loud for him — he was her collaborator. It was a whole other thing to do so when he wasn’t her only audience. More importantly if her audience happened to include the Baratheon king claimant himself as well as her future father considering her song was something she’d been writing to express her feelings on particular matters. It was not a song she ever intended for Jon or Stannis Baratheon to hear… and an absentminded glance towards the wooden walkways revealed the two of them locked in a hushed discussion while Ser Davos and Lady Melisandre listened attentively.

Just seeing them made her mouth go dry… but nausea crept down her throat when Jon suddenly noticed her, and his shift in attention made Stannis turn, too.

“I-I-I know lots of other songs, Shireen! Better songs, finished ones! Or — Or w-what’s your favorite song? If you hum the m-melody, I’m sure I could p-play it! I could even teach you how to play my lyre, if you want! Here, j-just—”

“What? No, no, that’s all right,” Shireen insisted, cutting off her babbling. “We can do that later.”

“But—”

“Are you embarrassed to let me hear it? I don’t mind if it’s not done. Truly, I don’t. I won’t laugh, I promise.”

“N-No, that’s not it!”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Lyaella couldn’t answer her. Not when her eyes were darting back and forth between Shireen and their father’s ending their conference and heading towards the stairs.

Shireen noticed where she was looking and turned. “What? My father, is that it? Don’t mind him.”

“S-Shireen—”

“You promised you’d play and sing for me, Lyaella. Today’s the last day we get to see each other.” She passed back her last few sheets of notes, brown eyes pleading as she softly smiled. “So, please. I want to hear what you’ve been working on.”

Her stomach dropped. How could she turn her down now? “All right…”

“Wonderful! Thank you!” She hopped down on the barrel again, beaming happily. “Go ahead, then.”

Trembling anxiously, Lyaella forced herself to not look back at Jon or Stannis as she climbed up on the other barrel. She didn’t want to do this, but she didn’t want to disappoint Shireen, either. She could only hope Stannis wouldn’t get mad at her for the song lyrics and she could slip away before Jon got upset.

Sōnar and Ghost moved to sit in front of her, watching raptly. They were her official audience along with Shireen, Gilly, and Tormund and the other Wildlings watching from the storeroom windows. No one else was paying them close attention. If she was lucky, no one else would care to listen. For all the Night’s Watch and the Baratheon army knew, she was just a little girl playing and singing a random tune they’d never heard before. Yes, that was the best way to think of this. So long as she sang and played quietly, none of them would hear her or care.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, Lyaella lightly plucked a few strings, soft notes filling the air. They steadily grew louder the more she played, and after a few moments she started singing.

_A raven flies from the North to the sea,_

_It knows who stole the throne, crown, and Red Keep,_

_A cold Iron Throne,_

_The five kings claim their own,_

_A crown laced in lies,_

_You win or you die_

There had only been a handful of watchmen and soldiers glancing their way before, but when the music reached their ears they went very still. Some turned and gave Lyaella their full and undivided attention. Others resumed their duties, pretending they weren’t listening. Even the Wildlings were blinking repeatedly, eyes wide. They didn’t know much about the war for the Iron Throne, but they did understand the Seven Kingdoms were being torn apart because of it. They pressed closer to the windows, watching her curiously.

_The watchers guard the Northern ice Wall,_

_A dragon East stakes her claim known to all,_

_A cold Iron Throne,_

_The five kings claim their own,_

_A crown laced in lies,_

_You win or you die_

On the wooden steps, Jon, Stannis, and his advisors stopped short. Ser Davos’ lips parted while Lady Melisandre brought a hand to her chest. Stannis shifted, his expressionless mask cracking as he glanced between her and Shireen. Jon just stared, too bewildered to react. Lyaella tried to avoid looking at him as she set aside her lyre. Her accompaniment had been perfect in the first verse, but this was as far as she’d gotten when writing the score. Torrhen would have to help her with the rest of it. For now, she could only sing the third verse on her own and hoped it sounded okay.

She steeled herself to continue, but paused when low rumbling and a deep howl filled the air. Sōnar and Ghost. They were making their own music in tempo with the beat. They were so kind to help her like this. Maybe one day they could do this again with Torrhen, Shadow, and their mother’s three dragons. Softly smiling, she sang on.

_A brother brave fights for honor not pride,_

_His sister sad and shy must only hide,_

_A cold Iron Throne,_

_The five kings claim their own,_

_A crown laced in lies,_

_You win or you die_

Sōnars rumbles slowly faded as she finished, but Ghost kept howling. It sounded so pretty over the distant breeze, like he was adding his own extra flourish at the end. It was so natural how well his howling accompanied the tune. She’d have to remember to tell Torrhen to write music scores for the direwolves and dragons for all their songs whenever she found him. If Ghost sounded this good just by howling freely, it’d be even better if they learned to properly accompany all their songs.

It took Shireen a few moments to start clapping. Softly. “Beautiful, Lyaella,” she murmured, her smile now fixed. “That — That was beautiful…”

Lyaella forced a nod and turned to pet Ghost, unable to meet her gaze. Even her friend sensed just how morbid the lyrics truly were. “Thank you.”

“It’s… It’s very honest about the war for the throne. What’s it called?”

_“You Win or You Die.”_

“Oh… Oh, I see.”

“Mmmh,” she murmured, cautiously hopping off the barrel. Some were still pointedly ignoring her, but others openly gawking at her, eyes wide and faces blank. She clutched her necklace, shifting uneasily on the barrel. What were they all thinking? Was Stannis angry with her? Was Jon? Why weren’t they saying anything?

Shireen blinked. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m — I’m just—”

_“You! I told you to stay away from my daughter!”_

Lyaella whipped around. Selyse Baratheon was barreling furiously across the courtyard, her gaze fixed solely on her.

The Night’s Watch and Baratheon army gaped, yet no one dared to stop her. She was Stannis’ queen after all, and the woman looked like the true epitome of the Baratheon House words. Pure fury was coursing through her veins, and no one wished to be on the receiving end of it. If anything, most of them pointedly averted their eyes from her and the two girls while a handful only peeked at them sparingly, intrigued yet not wanting the queen to know.

Even the little doe understood just how angry she was. “Mother,” she said, standing and hurrying forward. “I — I wasn’t expecting—”

Selyse’s eyes snapped to her, and Shireen flinched. “I shall deal with your sinful disobedience later!”

“But — But Mother—!”

“Silence, Shireen!”

“It’s our last day here at Castle Black! Please!”

“Silence!” she screeched. Shireen jumped and shrunk away, appropriately chastised. Satisfied, Selyse’s gaze snapped back to Lyaella, making her flinch. “You! I thought I made it clear you were to stay away from my daughter! You think just because you’re friends with monsters you don’t need to listen to me?!”

Lyaella trembled. “N-No… I’m sorry, Lady Selyse, b-but—”

_Smack!_

Shireen shrieked as Lyaella fell to the ground with a hard thud, her lyrics scattering in the wind. “That’s _Queen Selyse_ to you, bastard Snow!”

The Night’s Watch and Baratheon army now openly stared. Some looked stunned, but those who were personally against Lyaella smirked in approval. Jon, Stannis, and his advisors were among neither group though and hurried down the stairs to try defusing the situation. They speed walked at first, but had to break out running when Sōnar and Ghost roared and growled as they leapt forward in Lyaella’s defense, spitting embers and snarling in Selyse’s direction.

Chaos erupted as Stormlands soldiers whipped out their swords and scrambled between their queen and princess and the beasts. Even some of the Night’s Watch drew their blades, eager to slay the dragon should it attack.

Selyse’s fury only grew at the dragon and wolf’s reactions. “There! You see?!” She raged, spinning around and waving wildly at the animals. “Look at them! They’re dangerous! Violent! They should be killed before they burn us or tear us to shreds!”

Murmurs of agreement erupted from the crowd, and quite a few advanced forward.

Jon rushed past Stannis and shoved through the crowd. “Your grace—!”

“It’s me you h-hate, my lady. Don’t… D-Don’t hate Sōnar or Ghost.”

Everyone turned. Lyaella was slowly rising, pressing a clump of snow against the red welt on her cheek.

Selyse shifted slightly at her reluctant words, but wasn’t deterred. “I am the queen, child! You’d do well to remember that! And that were you not in the custody of the Night’s Watch, you’d already be dead! You and that wretched beast of yours!”

“I know, b-but you’re not my queen, Lady Selyse… nor are y-you the first or cruelest who’s w-wished me as such.”

Selyse stared at her. Shireen stared. Everyone stared. They stared, blinking repeatedly at how nonchalantly she said as such. Lyaella rubbed her cheek and quietly murmured Ghost and Sōnar to stand down. She wasn’t going to let her father’s direwolf or her dragon sister be harmed just because the Baratheon queen had slapped her. So many others had said and done worse in the past. If anything, the stag queen was kind in comparison.

Bowing her head, she collected the few music sheets close by and tried wiping away the bits of dirt clinging to them. She needed to disappear for awhile. So long as she got out of here fast, Selyse wouldn’t be too angry with Shireen and would focus her hatred on her. Better for her to be hated than Shireen. She spied another page that had blown off towards the forge and moved to grab it, but Selyse barred her path, glaring down at her with her usual sneer.

“Are you mocking me, Snow girl?!”

Lyaella blinked, confused. “M-Mocking you…? Why — Why would—?”

“I am your queen, whether you like it or not! My husband is your king! My daughter is his heir, the princess! You are to give us proper respect when we address you, not turn your back to us! Were you not within these walls right now—!”

“Mother!”

“Shireen, return to your solar! Now!”

“No! You apologize to Lyaella! You’re the one being disrespectful!”

“Sinful child—!”

“It’s all right, Shireen,” Lyaella murmured, quietly stepping around Selyse to grab the flyaway sheet. “I d-don’t mind…”

Shireen gaped. “How can you say that, Lyaella?! My mother—”

_“Stop talking to that wretched girl!”_

“—just smacked you! She’s saying such horrible things! Why are you letting her?!”

Lyaella didn’t respond. She couldn’t. If she did, she wasn’t sure what would come out of her mouth.

“Are you ignoring me now, Lyaella?! Why?!” she demanded, her voice rising. “I’m on your side! I’m speaking up for you! Why don’t you speak up for yourself?!”

She clutched her dragon pendant, squeezing it with a fistful of fur from her cloak.

“You’re allowed to say what you think! Get upset when people yell at you!”

Her shoulders quivered, chest hitching.

“Be angry once in a while!”

Tears gathered, making her sniffle.

“Talk back when people like my mother throw the first insult! You can’t just—!”

“The Lord shall punish you for your wicked tongue, child! How dare you—!”

“You’re lucky you have a loving mother, Shireen. Don’t insult her.”

It was a like a candle had been snuffed out, how still everything became. All murmuring hushed. The wind died. Sōnar and Ghost stopped growling and snarling. Shireen and Selyse went quiet. Even Jon who’d nearly made it to the front of the crowd froze from pushing and shoving others out of his way. Silence. Chilling silence.

Lyaella thickly swallowed. Why wasn’t anyone saying anything? Were they all staring at her now? Wondering if she was insane or mad? She knew why they’d all assume as such, but it was the truth. She knew it was.

Straightening her shoulders, she brushed off the snow on the last sheet and slowly walked back to the barrels, her head still bent. As soon as she grabbed her lyre she could leave. She’d hide away for a while, at least until Shireen went to bed. It was only because of her that Selyse was angry with her daughter. As cruel as Selyse had been, Lyaella didn’t want to be the cause of anymore strife between her and Shireen. She could smack her again if she wanted to. It didn’t matter.

And it seemed like she planned to, as the woman caught her shoulder as she tried to step past. Lyaella didn’t look up at her, though. She only sighed and stared down at her feet. “Go ahead.”

“What?”

“Slap me. Or smack me. Do… Do whatever you want.”

The grip on her shoulder lessened slightly, but Lyaella still didn’t look up. Whether she looked up at her or not wouldn’t matters. A smack was still a smack in the end, even if the target wasn’t paying attention.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d want me to strike you.”

She shook her head. “I d-don’t, but you do so… so why d-delay it? Go ahead. I… I won’t mind.”

Selyse pressed her lips together, a muscle growing taut in her cheek. “That’s a lie,” she accused.

“It’s not.”

“It is! If I were to hit you again, you’d have those beasts tear me apart! That’s what you want to do to my daughter! I know it is!”

Lyaella sighed and purposefully stepped back and out from her grip. “I’m not a liar, Lady Selyse. M-My brother and I never lie. Lying… our relatives do it everyday, and w-we will never be like them.”

“I don’t believe you!”

Her shoulders shook, chin trembling. “Why… W-Why are you using me like this?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Using me… to show Shireen you actually care about her…”

All rage and confusion was wiped clean from Selyse’s face. She froze, thunderstruck. Shireen jerked and did a double take, baffled at her words. Stannis and his advisors all tensed, lost for words. Everyone else just held their breath. It was anyone’s guess what would happen next.

Lyaella ignored them. She stared at the ground, massaging her cheek as the snow melted away. “I don’t… I don’t understand why y-you treat Shireen the way you do, my lady, but it’s n-none of my business, so… I don’t judge you for that. But I c-can see you care about her. You wouldn’t be so against me p-playing with her if you didn’t… That m-makes you a better parent than my relatives, anyway…” she murmured, her voice choking. “They wouldn’t have done anything if you’d s-slapped me. Of if you’d had your soldiers beat me. You’re… You’re protecting Shireen. They never protected T-Tory and me from people like you…”

No one said anything. There was no murmuring or hushed whispers in the crowd. Just utter silence.

Her vision blurred, eyes hot and wet as she fought back her gathering tears. “I-I-I know you won’t believe me, but I’d n-never… never hurt Shireen, L-Lady Selyse. I don’t care about the throne. I don’t c-care that she’s a Baratheon… S-She’s my friend. My first friend! The only friend I’ve ever had other than Torrhen!”

It was all too much. With a choked sob, Lyaella buried her face in her hands as she burst into tears. Iit was impossible to keep holding them back. Ever since her spout of breathlessness, she’d been putting on a brave face and continuing her days here at Castle Black while avoiding Shireen to keep from crying. Yet today — the last day she’d ever have with the little doe — she was being forced to explain all this just so Selyse wouldn’t yell at Shireen anymore. From what she remembered from her and Torrhen’s history book, Selyse only realized how much she actually loved her daughter when Lady Melisandre was already burning her as a sacrifice.

Maybe explaining all this was good, actually. The Red Woman was a murderer even if she’d done good things for her parents. There was nothing Lyaella could do to prevent Shireen’s death, not when she had to stay close to Jon so things would be better for him and her mother. But maybe she could make Shireen’s final days better than they had been in the first timeline. Perhaps playing Truth or Half-Truth to hint at a few things could make Selyse Baratheon treasure Shireen for what little time was left.

With splotchy red cheeks, she forced herself to meet the stag queen’s gaze. “I’m n-not… I’m not gonna hurt Shireen, L-Lady Selyse. If anything… if you wanna keep her safe, then keep her away f-from Lady Melisandre!”

Gathering her skirts, she made a quick curtsy and darted back to the barrels to grab her lyre. There, she’d said it. She’d been vague, but that was more than enough warning. Perhaps now Shireen could develop somewhat of a relationship with her mother before—

“Excuse me?!” Selyse shrilled, snatching her wrist. Lyaella whimpered as she whirled her back around, face twisting as her nails dug into her flesh.

“Mother!”

“Selyse, release her!”

“Queen Selyse, I warned you about harming the ward of the Night’s Watch! Let her go!”

“Silence, Shireen! The Lord shall punish you for your insolence! Stannis, I will not let allow this monstrous bastard speak ill of Lady Melisandre! She’s been a blessing in our lives and shall guide you to the throne! And you do not command me, Lord Commander! I am not one of your men! I am the queen of the Seven Kingdoms! You do not give me orders!”

“Yet you and his grace’s army are seeking shelter here from the war! If you wish to spend one last night within these walls, you will let go of Lyaella Snow! Immediately!”

“Selyse!”

Lyaella hadn’t thought it was possible, but Selyse somehow swelled with even more fury from the demand, her face puffing redder and redder. Shooting daggers at her husband and Jon, she reluctantly let go of Lyaella’s wrist. Lyaella trembled as she rubbed it, but froze when Selyse’s gaze snapped back to her. Her eyes were bulging and wild with rage as she towered over her.

“You” — Lyaella flinched at her deadly tone — “will never speak ill of Lady Melisandre again! Understand, Snow girl?! She’s a messenger of the Lord of Light! She proclaimed Stannis as the Prince that was Promised! She guided him here to fight against the coming darkness! The night will be dark and full of terrors if he doesn’t fulfill his destiny — a destiny he wouldn’t have known about had she not been counseling him! She’s performed miracles in his name! Miracles you couldn’t even dream of! You don’t—!”

 _“Miracles?!_ You call the things she does to be _miracles?!”_ Lyaella surprised even herself by how strong she sounded, and based how Selyse jerked back with wide eyes, she thought the same. “There’s nothing miraculous in what that woman does! Not when it comes from burning people!”

“The Wildling man? He’d named himself a king! There’s only—!”

“Not just him! I mean all the people she’s burnt at the stake!”

That shut Selyse up. She gaped at her, stunned, then shot a quick glance over her shoulder. Stannis was as rigid as a statue, his face seemingly blank as he stared at them, while Davos recoiled and refused to look his way. The Red Woman’s lips parted as she stepped forward slightly, surprised yet intrigued by her words. Lyaella couldn’t see Shireen’s reaction, but the Night’s Watch only looked puzzled by her words and turned to the Stormlands soldiers for clarification. The soldiers ignored them, too dumbstruck to say anything.

She glanced away, too overwhelmed to keep looking the stag queen in the eye. Still, her hands balled up into fists and she forced herself to keep going. “I’ve h-heard stories about what’s she’s done. I know she’s burned… burned m-more people at the stake for Lord Stannis. And I k-know about the rumor.”

“Rumor? What rumor?”

“The rumor about h-how his brother died. That Renly Baratheon w-was killed by… a shadow with Stannis’ face.” Stannis jerked, his face flickering with genuine shock for several moments before returning to its blank state. “I didn’t k-know what to think when I first h-heard this, but having met h-him and Lady Melisandre, I think they’re t-true… So if you really c-care about your daughter, then consider this… Who is S-Shireen really in more danger around? Me, the girl with a dragon who h-hasn’t hurt anyone… or your h-husband and the Red Woman who already killed h-his own brother?”

Silence filled the courtyard, no one daring to say anything. What they all thought was none of Lyaella’s concern, though. She had to get out of here before Stannis or Lady Melisandre snapped out of their shock and punished her for say thing all this. Gathering her skirts, she made a fast curtsy to Selyse and darted past. Tilting her head for Sōnar and Ghost to follow her, she grabbed her lyre and turned to leave. As she hurried past Shireen however, she stopped, her whole body trembling as she stared dead ahead rather than turning to her.

“I… I’m v-very sorry I said all that in front of you, Shireen…” she murmured, hot tears gathering again. “I h-hope you don’t hate me now, but… b-but I don’t want you to die. You’re my friend… and I k-know you will die if you’re parents keep l-listening to the Red Woman!”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shireen gape. The little doe reached out to her, but Lyaella didn’t let her. She ran to the lift before anyone could say anything, her dragon and the white direwolf right behind her. Climbing inside, she saw Sōnar spread her wings and fly up to the top of the Wall, but Ghost dared not enter the compartment. He simply sat down in on the platform and stared ominously at their onlookers, guarding her from them. Whispering a quiet thank you to the wolf, she threw her weight down on the lever and let the lift rise.

She didn’t dare look back at the crowd as the pulley took her higher. She just gave into her emotions and cried.

* * *

It had been a long, tiring day for Jon Snow. But it wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

He’d failed once again to talk to Lyaella in the library, talked to Maester Aemon, negotiated a plan with Tormund to work together with the Free Folk, pulled Stannis aside to ask permission to use his fleet, and then witnessed quite the dramatic scene in the courtyard with Lyaella, Shireen, and Selyse Baratheon. The song she’d sung prior was disturbing enough considering Lyaella herself wrote it, but then everything afterwards with the stag queen? It’d left him utterly speechless.

But that’d been hours ago now. Ever since she’d run off, Ghost had been guarding the front of the lift, letting no one go up after her. Many had tried, but his direwolf would immediately snap and grow to ward them off. The only exceptions were when Shireen, Gilly, and Maester Aemon tried approaching. For them, he wouldn’t act threatening, but he would consistently bar their path, not letting them approach the pulley system. Jon had no idea why Ghost was so attached to Lyaella, but it was clear his direwolf wasn’t going to let anyone bother her so long as she wanted to be left alone.

Jon hadn’t been too concerned at first, as he figured Lyaella would come down after an hour or so. He’d had to round up all the men in the Night’s Watch in the meantime and explain his plan for bringing the Free Folk onto their side of the Wall. The men hadn’t been pleased to hear this, especially not Thorne, but he refused to let anyone change his mind. The white walkers and the army of the dead were the true threat beyond the Wall, not the Free Folk. Defeating them was the only thing that mattered, and the only way that would happen was if the Free Folk and Night’s Watch learned to work together. Olly hadn’t been happy with him either, as he refused to even look at him now unless he had to give the boy an order. Jon understood his anger, but it was clear his steward had no intention of forgiving him anytime soon. He only hoped the boy would come to accept his decision. Holding on to hatred the way he was wasn’t healthy. He was still young, though. There was still plenty of time for him to come to grips with how his parents died.

However… that had all happened hours ago. It was almost sundown, and Lyaella had yet to come down from the top of the Wall.

Jon ran his fingers through his hair as he approached his wolf. Ghost had to let him up there so he could bring her down. It was going to be dark soon, and Maester Aemon had stressed to everyone after her breathlessness the other night about how imperative it was for her not to be on top of the Wall after nightfall. The air was so much colder and drier up there to begin with which made it bad for her lungs, but apparently it would be even worse for her up there at nighttime. That’s probably what led to her breathlessness that one night in the first place. She’d been coughing a lot in the days leading up to that attack, but spending hours up there after sundown that day was what truly triggered it. Even if she had that scarf Gilly made her, it was still risky for her to stay up there. Someone had to go and fetch her, but since Ghost wasn’t letting anyone go up, it was up to him to make him stand down. He only hoped his friend would listen to reason.

“Ghost, down,” he ordered.

Red eyes blinked at him, and a moment later Ghost stood and trotted up to him. Tilting his head curiously, his wolf regarded him for a moment before biting down on the edge of his cloak and trying to drag him forward. Jon jerked and tried to break free, but Ghost had a firm grip on him and refused to let go until they were both in front of the lift. He stared at him expectantly for several moments, then glanced pointedly to the compartment before looking back to him.

Jon sighed. “I get it. You didn’t have to drag me here, boy.”

Ghost whined lightly, then moved to sit in his guard position as he had before. His direwolf was quite strange sometimes. For whatever reason he had, Ghost had been sitting here all this time to stop anyone except him from going up top to talk to Lyaella. Jon had no idea why. For some reason, his wolf had become very fond and protective of the little girl. He followed her around and protected her almost as much as he did with him.

Shaking his head, Jon simply climbed into the lift and turned the lever. There was no use pondering over his wolf’s attachment to Lyaella right now. He had to focus on what he was going to say to that little girl. If nothing else, Ghost’s strange behavior would allow him to finally talk to her one-on-one without interruption.

He found her at one of the lookouts some ways off from the lift. None of the other watchers dared approaching her though, not when Sōnar was sitting there with her. They were close to the edge, yet Lyaella wasn’t looking out at the view. She was sitting against the sculpted out ice wall with her knees tucked up to her chest, face buried in her knees. Her dragon crooned softly, nudging her with its snout, but Lyaella just ignored her friend. Was she still crying? Had she stopped at all since Queen Selyse confronted her?

Jon sucked in a breath. This wasn’t going to be easy. But somehow he had to get her to stay here and talk to him, regardless of what happened earlier. With any luck, perhaps he could figure out some way to cheer her up before he got into all the matters he needed to talk to her about.

Nodding to himself, he cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Lyaella.”

Her head snapped up, revealing puffy red cheeks and alarmed, bulging gray eyes. “L-Lord Commander!” She squeaked, scrambling up. “I-I-I’m sorry! I — I didn’t know you’d be c-coming up here! Sorry to b-bother you, I’ll just go and—”

“No, you don’t have to go,” he said, moving to stand on the opposite side of lookout point to avoid her dragon. “It’s not dark yet. After dark I’ll insist you go down because of your lungs, but you’re fine for now. You can stay.”

She blinked at him, then stiffly nodded before sitting down again. “Oh, okay…”

Other than the roaring wind, an uneasy silence spread between them. Lyaella seemed determined to not look up at him or the amazing view and kept her eyes firmly fixed on her dragon, pointedly stroking its white scales. Her dragon however had its blue eyes locked solely on him, cocking its head curiously. Jon wanted to say something more and get a real conversation started, but he couldn’t. He was too on edge from how Sōnar was staring at him and could only look out at the snowy wilderness to avoid staring back.

Sōnar suddenly rumbled, and Jon couldn’t help but glance back. If he didn’t know any better, he would say that the dragon was shooting them both indignant looks, as though annoyed by their uneasiness. Jon gaped though when the dragon suddenly began pushing Lyaella closer to him with her head, as though trying to force her to talk.

“S-Sōnar, stop! No!” She exclaimed, climbing to her feet to try pushing her away. “S-Stop that!”

Jon tensed, yet didn’t move away. His instincts were screaming at him to back away from the fire breathing reptile, but he forced himself to stay put. Maester Aemon had advised him to try showing Lyaella he wasn’t afraid of her friend, after all. He had to try getting used to the dragon.

Sōnar didn’t stop pushing her until she was right next to him. Lyaella still didn’t look at him, though. “Sorry for S-Sōnar’s rudeness, Lord Commander,” she murmured, staring down at her feet. “I didn’t think she’d d-do that. I’ll… I’ll s-scold her later for making me b-bother you…”

“What? You’re not bothering me. Why’d you think you were?”

She shrunk away, still not looking at him. “W-Well… we must be if we’re here while you are… That’s why I’ve b-been staying out of your way so much. I… I t-thought you wanted me t-to stay away from you after you b-beheaded that man…”

He shook his head, mentally slapping himself yet again for how he reacted. “I didn’t mean to give you that impression. I’m sorry for how I reacted.”

“You… You are?”

“Aye. I’ve been meaning to apologize to you for what I said. I… I had a lot on my mind right then, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.”

There was a slight pause, then she hesitantly glanced up. “Thank you. I… I forgive you.”

Jon smiled. Okay, this was a start if nothing else. She was looking up at him, at least. Now he just needed to keep her talking. He tilted his head invitingly, gesturing to the view. “You can come closer, if you want. Hard to see anything if you stay back there.”

Lyaella bit her lip, but before she could do anything, Sōnar approached. Jon went rigid as the dragon peered down at him, but he didn’t dare move away. Like Maester Aemon said, he had to show Lyaella he was willing to open up to her friend. As it sniffed him curiously, he stiffly raised his hand, reaching out to its snout. Lyaella blinked in amazement as he nervously patted her companion, but he didn’t dare glance over to her. He kept his eyes locked on Sōnar, afraid that only one wrong move would make her bite off his hand or set him on fire.

But Sōnar did neither. If anything, her bright blue eyes twinkled as she happily trilled, pressing closer to his palm. The dragon liked him it seemed, but he still couldn’t get himself to fully drop his guard. It was strange to not do so, though. Part of him wanted to let go of his reservations and absorb the incredible sensation of being able to touch this amazing beast, but the rational side of himself wouldn’t let him. He had to listen to that side and stay guarded. Lyaella herself was harmless and kind, but he remembered all the stories he’d heard about Targaryen dragons. They were unpredictable creatures, and not even their riders could fully control them.

Lyaella was ignorant of his inner thoughts though and stepped closer to pamper her friend in kisses. Sōnar warbled, nudging her appreciatively with her wing. “You like Jon, right?” She asked, leaning into her scaly neck. “You like h-how he petted you?” Sōnar trilled, bobbing her head. Lyaella giggled and looked back to him. “You don’t have to be afraid of her. She won’t hurt you, I promise. You… You can keep petting her if you want.”

It took everything he had to casually wave away her words. “Perhaps another time. How about letting her fly off for awhile? If she’s been up here with you all this time, she might want to stretch her wings.”

She considered him for a moment, then turned to look her friend in the eye. “Go ahead, girl. I’ll be fine.”

Warbling affectionately, Sōnar nuzzled her silver hair one last time before spreading her wings and leaping out into the sky. Squawking loudly, she flew out over to the Haunted Forest before doubling back, circling high overhead as she enjoyed crisp fresh air.

Jon would have kept watching her for a few moments, but a sudden gasp from Lyaella made him glance back to her. She stared out at the snowy landscape in amazement, lips parted as she crept a few steps closer to the edge.

“Wow… It’s beautiful!”

Jon quirked his head, puzzled. “Wait… haven’t you seen the view yet? You came up here before.”

“It was t-too dark the other day to see anything when I c-came up before. And I only came u-up here now to be alone. I didn’t l-look out over the edge,” she explained. “This… This is the f-first time I’m seeing this.”

Jon was surprised. Aside from when one looked at the Wall itself for the first time, coming to the top and looking out at the horizon was one of the few things that drew people to visit the Night’s Watch. That Lyaella had come up here before and not taken in the view was definitely surprising. Still, he held his tongue and let her drink in the sight. He remembered how wonderstruck he’d been when he first took it in. Uncle Benjen had still been here, and he admitted he’d wanted to be with him when he first saw it. Yet Lyaella was all alone. Other than himself, there was no one here who cared to be with her when she first looked out at the snowy horizon. Hopefully she didn’t mind him being here right now. Unless there was someone in particular she wanted to come up here to share this moment, he hoped he wasn’t a bad choice for her first glimpse beyond the Wall.

He broke out of his thoughts as she cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hello…” she shyly called, her tone just barely above her usual speaking range. “I’m… I’m on top of the world…!”

Jon chuckled. “Impressive. Now repeat yourself a few times while going quieter and it’ll sound like an echo.”

She flushed, bowing her head as she twiddled her thumbs. “Tory’ll be jealous when I t-tell him about this…” she muttered. “H-He’ll be mad when he realizes he m-missed out on fulfilling one of his d-dreams…”

“His dreams?”

“Mm-hmm,” she nodded. “He told me once a l-long time ago that… that i-if we ever got to visit the Wall, he w-wanted to jump off the edge of it.”

Jon’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “What?!”

Lyaella giggled. “Don’t worry, it’s not w-what you think. He didn’t mean it as in k-killing himself. He meant is as a game.”

“A game…?”

“A game with Sōnar. He… He was joking that someday when we’re older and S-Sōnar’s bigger, he’d jump off the edge and l-let her catch him in midair. It was his idea of fun.”

“Huh.” Jon blinked incredulously, unsure what to say. “You — You don’t intend to do that yourself, do you? As Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, I’m forbidding you from ever attempting such a stunt.”

Lyaella shook her head, her cheeks brightening further as she fiddled with her dragon pendant. “N-No, I don’t plan to do that. I’m… I’m not nearly as b-brave as him to try. And even if I w-was, I couldn’t. Sōnar… she’s still t-too small. We c-couldn’t ride her yet if we tried.”

“Good, don’t try that. Ever,” he ordered.

Lyaella shrugged in return, but Jon hardly noticed. While he was relieved she didn’t intend to perform such a reckless stunt, part of him wondered if she was even aware of just how big her dragon really was. While still too small to carry a child as small as Lyaella, Sōnar seemed somewhat bigger now than she had been when they first came here. Recently she seemed to be constantly bumping her head on the tops of door frames when following her little mistress indoors, and her head curved down more than it used to when looking down at people. Not to mention her wing span had increased significantly. People were always on the lookout now to give advanced warning to others loitering about in the courtyard if it seemed like the dragon was going to land amongst them. People had nearly been knocked over once when she’d swooped down with her wings fully extended. No one wanted there to be any accidents caused by Sōnar’s growing wings.

Still, he knew better than to tell her any of this. If there was one thing he’d come to realize about Lyaella Snow, the slightest thing could make her shy away and abruptly end a conversation. “Sounds like you’re very close, you and your brother,” he commented. “You must miss him.”

She nodded, staring wistfully back out at the snowy landscape. “We are. He’s… He’s my best friend. The only real friend I’ve ever had before Princess Shireen. And we’re twins, and we only have each other. You… You have no idea what it’s like having no one who truly cares about you…”

Jon grimaced, a heavy sigh escaping him. “I suppose that’s true. I’m a bastard too, but I know was luckier than most. I grew up in a noble family, with lots of siblings and a good man for my father.”

“Ned Stark?” He nodded. “What… What was he like? Was he really as honorable as people say?”

He nodded, smiling kindly. “Aye, he was. The most honorable man you could imagine. He always tried to do the right thing, regardless of what anyone else thought. And he always — always put his family first. I try to follow his example as best I can. I can’t imagine a better man to look up to than him.”

Lyaella nodded, her expression thoughtful. “He sounds like a good man.”

“He was. The very best. I — I was the only stain of dishonor on his name. Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell.” Memories of growing up under the scrutiny and judgmental sneers from Lady Catelyn flooded his mind, and he solemnly turned to glance towards the setting sun. He’d long since come to terms of his status in life as the only white wolf among the pack of grays, but still… “There’s only two things I always wanted him to do yet he never did.”

“Really? What?”

“Telling me who my mother was, and asking the king to legitimize me as a Stark.”

Lyaella whipped around, blinking incredulously.

“You know who both your parents were, right?” She slowly nodded, eyeing him carefully. “That’s good. Well, you probably won’t understand this, Lyaella, but not knowing who my mother was… it’s hard to explain. I’m know I’m a Stark, but there’s this whole other side of myself I’ll never know that comes from my mother. I don’t know if she was highborn like him, a milkmaid, or a wh—” he paused, suddenly glancing down at her. “Or even of the North. He didn’t even tell me if she’s still alive. I wish he could’ve at least told me her name, if nothing else.”

Lyaella frowned, suddenly becoming quite interested in playing with her pendant. “I see…”

“And my name… you know better than anyone what it’s like to be a Snow. You know how hard it is.” She stiffly nodded, not daring to look up at him. “So to be a Stark… to have the same name as my brothers and sisters… I’d go to the Godswood sometimes and pray to have a different last name. To be trueborn and just as worthy as my brother Robb… He could have Winterfell and the North. I just wanted to be as worthy of the Stark name as he was.”

Lyaella bit her lip and stared down at her feet. Jon didn’t even know why he told her all that. Yes, she was a bastard like him, but she was just a little girl. He shouldn’t be weighing her down with these heavy ideas. But even so, it was strange she was staying so quiet. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was purposefully trying to distance herself again by not answering. That didn’t make sense though, as she claimed she’d forgiven him for how he treated her before. So why did she seem so resigned and quiet?

Finally she sighed. “You’re very strange, Jon Snow. Very, very strange.”

He blinked at her. “Pardon?”

“You’re strange,” she shrugged. “I don’t understand your logic. It’s strange to me.”

“You’re confusing me, now. What’re you talking about?”

“Well, I get why you think so highly of Ned Stark. He sounds like a good person… but why would you want to keep following his example? I mean… honor cost him his head, right? Don’t you think that makes him a bad role model?”

Jon frowned. “He might’ve been foolish, but being honorable and doing what’s right is something we should all try to do. He made the mistake of going to King’s Landing when he should have stayed in the North. He’d still be here if he’d stayed. We Northerner’s don’t play the same stupid games Southerners play.”

She shook her head. “If you believe that, you’re just as foolish as he was. Everyone plays those games, Jon. Including Northerner’s. Torrhen and me… our parents are dead because our Northern relatives played their games with them. They didn’t care they died because of their schemes. They got what they wanted, that’s all that mattered.”

Jon was chilled how matter-of-fact she was while saying this. What kind of life had this little girl led to make her say these things?

“And as far as being legitimized goes—” she paused, wrinkling her face in disgust “—that’s a horrible thing to wish for. You should be thankful to Ned Stark for not giving you the Stark surname.”

He jerked. “What? Why in world would you—?”

“Unless you’re lucky enough to be legitimized at birth, being legitimized is one of the worst things a bastard can ever have happen to them,” she went on, her voice growing hard. “It’s insulting to be legitimized later in life.”

“Insulting…?”

“Yes.”

“Why… Why do you—?”

“That’s a long story, and one I don’t wanna talk about. Tell me more about your life in Winterfell. And your other mother.”

Jon furrowed his brows, confused. “Other mother?” She nodded. “I just told you I don’t know anything about my mother, and I don’t have another one.”

“I mean your stepmother. Lord Stark’s wife. What was she like?”

His thoughts fell short, words escaping him. “I… I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong idea. Lyaella.”

“The wrong idea…?”

“Lady Catelyn… she was a decent woman. She cared for my father and was a good Lady of Winterfell. She was a good person… but she wasn’t like that with me.”

Lyaella blinked, surprised. “She… She wasn’t?”

He shook his head. “No. You need to understand, Lyaella… me being raised at Winterfell alongside my brothers and sisters… it’s not the norm with what happens to highborn bastards. To Lady Catelyn, me living there was a huge insult to her. I didn’t like how she treated me, but I understood why. Like I said, I was the one dishonorable stain on my father’s past. She hated looking at me and remembering that.”

She turned to lean back against the ice wall as she considered this. “I see…”

“Don’t get me wrong. She was a good person. Loved her family more than anything in the world. And my siblings didn’t follow her example… well, except maybe Sansa.”

“Sansa?”

“Aye. She was always desperate to be the perfect little lady. Followed Lady Catelyn everywhere trying to be exactly like her. She… She wasn’t exactly cruel to me. Think of it more as her simply ignoring me just to get her mother’s approval. She’d smile and be kind on occasion, but when Lady Catelyn was around she’d pretend I wasn’t there, if that makes sense.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. If she acted differently just to get Lady Catelyn’s approval, then that makes her just as cruel as her mother. They both sound like terrible people.”

Jon gaped at her, stunned. “That’s — That’s not true. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Actually I do, because Lady Catelyn sounds like a slightly less cruel version of my aunts and uncle, and if you’re sister wanted to be just like her, she must have been as cruel as she was. Torrhen and me had to deal with our cruelest aunt everyday, our other cruel aunt randomly, and then our puppet-like uncle once a year, so I know I’m right. I wouldn’t be surprised if our relatives learned how to be cruel from Lady Catelyn. She must’ve taught them well.”

“No… that’s not… I…” he closed his eyes and sighed, unsure what to say. “Look… I’m probably exaggerating a bit. I don’t know who your relatives are, but the way you described them and what Lady Catelyn was like… it’s not the same thing. I swear it’s not.”

“I disagree. Like I told Lady Selyse, Tory and I don’t lie. Ever. Our relatives lie all the time, and we decided a long time ago we would never be like them. So we had to learn how to tell the difference between truths and lies to know when they lie to us. So I know you’re lying to me right now.”

“What? No, I’m—”

“You are, but you’re only lying ‘cause you’re humble, so that’s different. What you said before about Lady Catelyn and Sansa was the real truth, because the first reactions people have are always the most honest ones. They were just as cruel to you as my aunts and uncle are to me and Torrhen. End of story.”

Jon wanted to disagree, but there’d be no point. She truly believed everything she was saying was right. Perhaps there was some amount of truth as to what she said regarding Lady Catelyn, but when it came to Sansa he knew she was wrong. Sansa had always been colder towards him than the rest of his siblings, but she was never deliberately cruel. What had Lyaella’s relatives done exactly to make her so jaded about people? If he were her father, he never would’ve let her or her brother endure the life they had. He would’ve treasured them and made sure they knew nothing but joy everyday.

Come to think of it… maybe the reason why he’d been trying to keep her at arms length all this time wasn’t because of Ygritte and the life he almost had with her. Maybe it was because deep down, Lyaella was almost a perfect mix of both his sisters. Lyaella was kind and polite, very ladylike just like Sansa always was. Yet at the same time, she was adamant to become a fighter and despite being very shy, there were moments when she could muster her inner strength and be rather plucky, rather like Arya. He’d treasured Arya so much while growing up, and even though Sansa kept her distance from him, he’d loved her too. Being close to Lyaella made him remember the best qualities in his sisters, and that made him depressed. His sisters were either dead or had long since decided not to look for him. If they were still alive, he only hoped they were all right.

But as for Lyaella herself… even if her relatives came to the Wall looking for her or her brother, he wouldn’t send her back to them. Not unless he saw undeniable proof that Lyaella was wrong in her beliefs about them. For now though, she had to go somewhere else. Somewhere safer than here. Which reminded him…

“There’s something I need to talk to you about Lyaella. Something important.”

“What?”

He shifted a bit, feeling the letter slide around in his cloak. “I’m sure you’ve realized that you staying at the Night’s Watch can’t go on forever. Which is why I’ve been trying to figure out where to send you where you’ll be safe.”

She stared at him, surprised. “You… You don’t want me here?”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not that, Lyaella. It’s just the Night’s Watch is supposed to be politically neutral from the rest of Westeros. You staying here however puts us in a position where we can’t stay that way. By hiding you here from the rest of the world…” he paused, struggling to find the right words. “Let me put it like this. If we threw you and your dragon out right now with only the clothes on your back, we know you wouldn’t make it. But if we keep you here and the Lannister’s somehow find out about it—”

“—t-they’d accuse you of siding w-with a Targaryen restoration.” She finished, frowning as she slowly slid down against the ice wall to sit with her knees tucked up to her chest again. “B-But… But I already told Stannis that me and T-Tory don’t want the Iron Throne. We… We’d be happy if D-Daenerys Targaryen won it, but we… w-we really don’t care who sits on it in t-the end…”

Strange, she’d stopped stuttering and hesitating over her words for quite some time he hadn’t even realized she’d stopped, but she was doing it again. Jon made a mental note to talk to her about it later, though. Right now, there were far more pressing matters to discuss. She’d mentioned Daenerys on her own… Maybe he had to frame this another way.

“Other than Maester Aemon, the Dragon Queen is the only Targaryen left. That’d make her your last living relative, not counting your aunts and uncle. Right?”

Lyaella bit her lip, slowly nodding. “Y-Yes, our aunts and uncle… they’re r-related to us from our — our other p-parent’s side. They’re not related to House T-Targaryen themselves.”

“Which side, though? Your mother or father?” She shook her head, refusing to answer. “Well, that still makes her the last of your family. Did you and your brother ever want to meet her?”

She quirked a brow, muddled. “Why… Why d-do you ask?”

Steeling his nerves, he reached around inside his cloak. “Because I think you’d be safer with her than you are here.” He fished out the letter. “I wrote this for her. Explaining you. You, your dragon, and that missing brother of yours.”

Her brows shot up. Taking the letter, she unfolded it and skimmed over the lines, eyes wide in surprise. Passing it back when she was done, she was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “You’re… You’re g-going to send her this?”

“I want to… but first I need to know if you want me to.”

“W-What?”

“What do you want to do, Lyaella? If you want me to send this to Daenerys Targaryen, I will… but is there someone else you’d like me to write to instead? I understand why you wouldn’t want to reach out to your relatives… but would you prefer if I sent a raven to House Martell? Other Targaryen supporters? Or what about those people you and your brother somewhat trust? You mentioned before there was a woman you both got ravens from all the time who knew your mother, and then there was another man… the one who taught you a little on High Valyrian. If you tell me their names and where they’re from, I could send a raven to them.”

Lyaella vehemently shook her head, eyes going wide. “N-No, no! That’s…That’s not possible…! Y-You can’t!”

“It’s no trouble, Lyaella, really. I don’t—”

“Y-You just can’t! Really, you can’t…” she murmured, hanging her head. “Writing to t-them… it’s n-not an option. That’s all I can say…”

Jon furrowed his brows. There was definitely something more to that than she was saying. He’d have to ask later. “All right… but I do at least want to send this to the Dragon Queen instead. Unless you have a good reason for me not reaching out to her, I insist on doing so.”

She fell silent again, thinking as she twirled a loose strand of her silver hair around her finger. “I’m… I’m n-not against meeting her, really… I-I-I’ve always wanted to meet h-her, actually. Me and T-Tory both wanted that…”

He smiled. “All right, then there’s no problem. I’ll go and—”

“But… B-But I don’t w-wanna leave, either!” she exclaimed. “Shireen’s l-leaving, but… you’re here! You’ve been n-nice to me, Jon… And so has M-Maester Aemon and Gilly and S-Sam… I’d l-love to meet Daenerys Targaryen… but n-not if it means leaving! I don’t… I d-don’t wanna leave you… a-any of you!”

Jon heavily sighed, taking a seat against the wall next to her. “Lyaella, even if we somehow managed to keep the rest of the Seven Kingdoms from finding out about you, it’s too dangerous for you to stay here.”

“Because of Stannis and the W-Wildlings?”

He shook his head. “Not just them. You probably don’t realize this, but there are people here at Castle Black other than Stannis who hate House Targaryen, or… or who enjoy hurting people deliberately. Even if you weren’t of Targaryen descent, I’d be worried about you staying here long term just because of them. And I haven’t even brought up your breathing condition and the army of the dead…”

She sat up straighter, eyeing him carefully. “The… The army of the dead?”

Jon fell silent. Had no one taken the time to explain to her about the true threat beyond the Wall? That’d certainly explain why she was against leaving.“Aye, that’s right. You’ve heard the stories about the Long Night, haven’t you?” She nodded. “Well, you remember how they talked about white walkers and dead men?”

“Yes… and I admit I’ve h-heard rumors about how they’re… they’re c-coming back to life on the other s-side of the Wall. I don’t know if t-they’re true or not, though…”

“Aye. Well, I can tell you right now they’re true. All of them.”

“Right…”

He frowned. “You don’t believe me? I thought you said you could tell when people are lying? You realize the Free Folk wouldn’t have been so desperate to attack the Watch if something bad wasn’t happening out there, don’t you?”

She fidgeted a bit, staring down at her lap with red cheeks. “I… I don’t not believe there’s n-nothing bad happening out there, and… and I d-don’t take you for a liar, Jon, b-but… it’s just hard t-to wrap my mind around. I m-mean… maybe something else is h-happening out there that the Wildlings t-think are the white walkers. That’s… That’s p-possible, isn’t it?”

“I’d agree with you if I hadn’t seen them myself.”

“You… You have? W-What are they like?”

Jon tensed and didn’t answer. She was just a little girl. She didn’t need to know how scared he’d been when he’d saved Jeor Mormont from that wight in his office. Or when he witnessed a white walker carry away that baby boy from Craster’s Keep. And she especially didn’t need to know about the bloody spiral of slaughtered horse remains at the Fist of the First Men. She get nightmares just from thinking about such things.

Lyaella soon sighed. “You’re n-not gonna explain, are you?”

“Look… The danger out there is very, very real. They exist, Lyaella, I swear. If anyone’s still out there when Winter finally comes, they’ll suffer a fate far worse than death.”

She scoffed. “Death… Death isn’t such a t-terrible thing,” she murmured, letting her eyes wander to where Sōnar was swooping through the air. “It’s hard on those l-left here, but… it’s n-not the worst thing. Life is worse…”

He stared at her, bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“Well, the Night’s W-Watch is a good example…” He stared at her, thoroughly baffled. She sighed. “The W-Wall’s where criminals are sent, right? It’s supposed to be a… a m-mercy instead of death. You’re alive, b-but you’re forced to spend the r-rest of your days here, and you can’t be with your family…” She hugged her knees to her chest, shivering as an icy gust of wind whipped through. “If y-you’re stripped of your freedom on h-how you want to live your life, and you’re n-never allowed to be with your family again, that’s… that’s not life at all. D-Death is more merciful…”

“There’s honor serving in the Watch,” he protested. “All the men here help protect the realm from danger. I wasn’t banished here, you know. I came willingly as a volunteer.”

“Then you w-were stupid to do so, because you gave up l-life with your family. You… Y-You could’ve joined Robb Stark when he m-marched off to war. Maybe even saved him at the R-Red Wedding. But you were here… D-Don’t lie and say you didn’t regret your vows when you l-learned what happened.”

“…All right, that’s true. But consider this — if I hadn’t joined the Night’s Watch, I wouldn’t have been here when we found you and Sōnar beyond the Wall. I almost abandoned the Watch when I heard my brother was marching to war, but my friends stopped me. If they hadn’t… well, you were very scared, that day. If I hadn’t calmed you down…”

She turned, blinking repeatedly. “You… You tried to leave once?”

“Aye,” he nodded, “I did. Part of me wishes I’d just ignored my friends and just left. I’ll always miss Robb, and I’ll always wonder if I could’ve saved him… but I know I did the right thing, staying. I’ve lost a lot, Lyaella, but I can still do what’s right. It doesn’t matter who sits on the Iron Throne. This war we’re fighting here at the Wall, it’s the only war that matters. The Great War. And right now, the one way I can keep the odds hopefully in our favor is by honoring my vows and protecting all the realms of men.”

Lyaella only tilted her head, puzzled.

“I talked to Tormund earlier,” he explained. “I’m the new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, now… and I asked if it’d be possible for the Free Folk to come over to our side of the Wall.”

She jolted, leaping to her feet in alarm.

“Hey, hey now!” He got himself, kneeling to look at her directly. “I’m sure you’ve heard lots of things about the Free Folk before, but I’ve spent time with them. I even had to live amongst them for awhile. They’re not monsters or savages, I swear.”

She didn’t appear to be listening, though. She was staring down at her feet with wide eyes, and muttering under her breath. “Free Folk… this side of the Wall… has it really been that long?”

He frowned. “What was that?”

“N-Nothing… Will you go talk to them soon, then?”

“Aye, very soon,” he slowly nodded, still eying her curiously. “Stannis agreed to let us borrow his fleet. I’ll be leaving with Tormund and some others in the Watch for their encampment at Hardhome after his people clear out. We’ll be heading out in the next few days.”

“Can I come with you?”

His head snapped to her in alarm. “What? No.”

“Please? I… I want to help, and with Sōnar with me, I’ll be fine. And I might finally find Torrhen.”

“Your brother? I thought you said you before that he must’ve ended up somewhere else.”

“I know, but maybe… maybe I was wrong. Maybe him and Shadow were found by some of the Free Folk who escaped Stannis’ ambush. That Wildling man — or Free Folk, as you said — their king… That man, Mance… He and Tormund said it was possible their people took them with them to Hardhome. Maybe… Maybe they’re there! I don’t know why I ended up on the wrong side of the Wall, but… but if I woke up there, maybe they were close by and I just didn’t find them before you found me! It’s possible, right?”

“I suppose…”

“Then I have to go! I have to find them!”

Interesting. She’d stopped stuttering again. But why? Was it because she was excited about possibly seeing her brother again? There was definitely something that triggered her nervous stammers, though the question was what. Still, Jon let it go for now and kept his face in a stern mask as he shook his head. “Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous, Lyaella. I promise I’ll ask around while I’m there if they’ve seen a boy like your brother,but you’re not going.”

“But—!”

“No. End of discussion… but if you really want to help, there is something you can do.”

She perked up at that, smiling brightly. “What? I’ll do it, whatever it is.”

Jon paused. He was glad she wanted to help, but there was a good chance she’d second guess that when she heard what it was. Why in seven hells did Tormund have to make this a dealbreaker for his help? “Well… first you need to understand, Lyaella, that the Free Folk hate the Night’s Watch. To them, we’re the enemy. We kill them just because they try climbing the Wall in hopes of a better life… Do you understand?” She nodded, listening attentively. “The Night’s Watch… it was originally founded so we could keep watch for when the Long Night comes again, but that was thousands of years ago. We forgot why we’re here and focused more on the Free Folk raids. There’s generations of bloodshed on both sides. The men weren’t happy with me when I told them about this, so imagine how this’ll sound to their people when they hear it.”

She nodded, sighing sadly. “They won’t wanna believe it, even though it’s their only chance…”

“Aye, exactly. Tormund… he has two conditions he demands of me before helping me with all this.”

Lyaella blinked, tilting her head curiously. “Two conditions?”

Jon nodded. “The first is I go to Hardhome with him. That I understand. His people need to hear from me that they won’t be hurt if they do this.”

“Because you’re Lord Commander?”

“Aye, it’s my duty to go, but the other thing he asks…” he stopped, running a hand over his face. “It’s technically not my decision to make… I don’t know how to say this…”

“What? Just say it.”

“Tormund… he’s demanding we take your dragon, too.”

A strong gust of wind whipped past, making their cloaks billow out behind them. It was so strong actually that Jon had to grab hold of Lyaella’s arm as she teetered dangerously close to the edge. She nodded appreciatively, but otherwise stayed silent, staring at him with bulging eyes. Then she turned to glance out at Sōnar in the distance, still not saying anything. Jon wished she would. She was so utterly blank it was impossible to figure out what she was thinking.

“Why?” She said finally. “I… I don’t understand…”

Jon sighed. “Tormund… he says he the other Free Folk here have been paying attention to you. They don’t understand what the problem is of you being a Targaryen, but they don’t care. It’s Sōnar that’s got their attention.”

“Sōnar? Why?”

“Because dragons breathe fire, and fire kills wights,” he explained. “As far as we know, there’s only two things that kills — fire and dragonglass, and dragonglass also kills white walkers. I wish you fully believed me on all this, but I understand why it’s a lot to wrap your mind around. Still, Tormund and his people have been fighting to survive for ages, Lyaella, and they want the rest of them who don’t know about her yet that there’ll be… hope when Winter comes.”

“Hope?”

“Aye. I know you don’t believe me, but they all think you and your dragon are going to be vital in defeating the dead when they come for us.”

“But I’m a little girl. What can I do?”

He snorted. “If we’re lucky, Winter won’t come for another five or six years. You could do something then, right?”

A ghost of a smile spread across her face as she giggled. “I don’t ever wanna grow up. I like being a little girl. You should tell them to charter a ship and talk to Daenerys Targaryen about this.”

Jon laughed. He’d never realized just how charming her childish innocence was. “Either way that’s what they think, but other than them and the few that escaped Stannis’ attack, the rest of the Free Folk don’t know about you. They don’t know there’s a better chance of surviving Winter on this side of the Wall because you and your dragon exist.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, glancing back out into the distance. “I still don’t know what to think about the dead, but you said I couldn’t go with you. If… If I can’t go, then why would Sōnar—?”

“Tormund understands it’s too dangerous and risky for you to go, Lyaella, but your dragon… she has to come with us. He insists that the Free Folk at Hardhome need to see her. It’s the only way they’ll understand that trusting my promise for their safety is their only chance at surviving the dead. He won’t go unless your dragon goes… so I need your permission to borrow her for this trip.”

“Oh… Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you with that.”

He closed his eyes, fighting back his frustration. “Lyaella, even if you don’t believe in the dead, this is serious! Please—!”

“No, you — you don’t understand… I really can’t. Sōnar won’t just leave me here alone…”

He blinked, furrowing his brows. “Come again?”

Lyaella bit her lip, wringing her hands before heavily sighing. “Dragons… Dragons aren’t the same as pets… I tell Sōnar what to do sometimes, but… but it’s not like teaching a specific command to a cat or dog… It’s like how Ghost is.”

“Ghost?”

She nodded. “Ghost is a direwolf, and he’s smarter than other animals. You know that, right?”

“…Aye,” he said, slowly nodding. “He’s very smart. I found him as a pup, and we’ve been together ever since. He… He just knows things right away, understands more than I’d expect… We have a bond.”

“Yes, exactly,” she smiled. “It’s the same thing with me and Sōnar. She has emotions, just like you and me… She understands everything people say around her. She listens, thinks for herself… and she and I have a bond, too. Other than Tory, she wouldn’t listen if someone else tried giving her orders. Not unless she had reason to think they were trustworthy and friends with me, Torrhen, or Shadow.”

“All right, but why does any of that matter? I’ve been separated from Ghost before, and I’ve never had any trouble with him.”

“I told you, we’re bonded. Sōnar won’t leave me here alone.”

“You’re not making any sense…”

Lyaella paused, tapping her chin as she pondered how to better explain. “Well, let me put it like this… Sōnar knows that I miss Torrhen. We’ve always been together. Always. Other than Sōnar and Shadow, we’ve never… we’ve never had anyone else that hasn’t died, left us, or… or just disappointed us…”

Jon cocked his head. “Disappointed you…?”

She sighed and leaned back against the ice. “Making us think they actually care about us,” she murmured, gazing out listlessly at the snowy landscape. “They made us believe we were loved… only we’d find out later it was just another lie. It… It’d hurt… It’d hurt so much…” She hung her head, bangs covering her eyes as her lower lip trembled.

There was definitely a story there, but Jon knew better than to ask. Perhaps when she was a bit more comfortable around people it’d be okay to prod more into her history, but for now he let it go. There were more pressing issues at hand.

“I’m sorry, truly I am. But is that related to you lending your dragon to us for this trip?”

“Because Sōnar knows that without Torrhen and Shadow here, she’s all I have. So she won’t go with you. She won’t leave me here alone.”

Jon just stared at her, mind going blank. “Well… can’t you ask her to do so just this once? I need her to—”

A sharp, humorless laugh cut him off. “Were you not listening to a word I said?” Lyaella demanded, eyes narrowing as she folded her arms. “Dragons — aren’t — pets! Sōnar’s her own being. She makes her own choices. She listens to me because she knows me, but because she chooses to do so. If you want me to ask her to do that, I will, but I’m already telling you what she’ll do. She’ll ignore that request and refuse to go. She won’t leave me.”

He stared at her for a few moments before sighing and turning away. This was a problem. He couldn’t take the dragon up there without taking Lyaella? Fuck, fuck, fuck! And the worst part, he had no way of confirming if she was telling the truth or not. He’d been avoiding her dragon as much as possible since she’d arrived, and for the limited knowledge Maester Aemon had about real dragons whereas learning about them in books, Jon doubted he’d know either. What could he do…?

Adjusting his cloak, he felt the letter slide around a bit in his pocket, and a thought occurred to him. It took everything Jon had to continue at an even level. “You know, we seem to have gotten off track from what I was asking you about before. What do you think about me sending a letter to Daenerys Targaryen?”

Her head jerked back a bit at the reminder. “Well… can I have some time to think it over? It’s a big decision…”

“Any other day I’d say yes, but since I don’t know if you’re telling me the truth or not about your dragon, you need to say yes or else you can’t come.”

Lyaella blinked, puzzled.

“Consider this a compromise. You let me send word to Daenerys Targaryen, and I’ll let you come to Hardhome.”

“I-I-I’m not lying, though! I’d never—!”

“I don’t know that though, Lyaella. I want you safe, but if I absolutely must take you to Hardhome so your dragon will come, then I want reassurance you’ll eventually go somewhere safer. Do we have a deal?”

She bit her lip and let her eyes drift down. “…Okay,” she murmured, wringing her hands. “Okay… we have a deal…”

“Good.”

“But I want you to send one of Sōnar’s dragon scales with it! She sheds them every now and then, so… so it’ll be proof that she exists. Daenerys will recognize it as a dragon scale, I know she will. And I want to write her a letter, too. I’ll introduce myself and tell her about Torrhen and Shadow. I still don’t know where they are, but maybe… maybe he made it across the Narrow Sea and is with her now.”

“I doubt a boy as young as you could make it across the sea on his own, even if he’s with this so-called Shadow and looks more Northern than Targaryen.”

“Still, we don’t… we don’t know for sure. Like I said, I think they might also be with the Wildlings — I mean, Free Folk at this Hardhome place. But if not, they could be with the Dragon Queen. Anything’s possible.”

Jon shrugged. “I suppose so, though I do think it’s still a stretch. Still, I don’t see the harm in you writing your own letter.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Do what you must to get a dragon scale, and write whatever you want in your letter. I think I’ll ask Maester Aemon if he’d like for someone to write down his own message for the Dragon Queen. That’d make him happy, I think…”

Lyaella beamed. “Yes! He’d… He’d be very happy if you asked him that! I know he—” Suddenly she stopped, one hand flying to her mouth and the other pressing down on her chest as she hoarsely coughed.

Jon tensed and glanced out at the horizon. They’d been talking for so long he hadn’t realized how late it’d been getting. The sun had almost completely disappeared behind the far off mountains, leaving only a few faint traces of light glinting down on the land.

“Call your dragon and pull your scarf up. Time to go down.”

Wiping her hand on her dress, she weakly nodded and cupped her hands around her mouth. “C’mon, Sōnar! We’re going down, now!”

A roar answered her, and moments later the snowy white dragon swooped away from the Haunted Forest and glided overhead to their side of the Wall.

Nodding approvingly, Jon nudged Lyaella to remind her about her scarf and steered her back towards the lift. That hadn’t been as hard as he’d thought it’d be, talking to Lyaella Snow about all this. He still wasn’t in any rush to spend more time than necessary with her dragon, but Sōnar seemed relatively tame for the most part and Lyaella was a sweet girl. Granted, a very shy girl who needed to find her inner strength if she was to survive in this world as a Targaryen bastard, but still very kind. It was such a shame she wasn’t trueborn. If she was, Jon was sure many would’ve flocked to her name should she stake a claim on the Iron Throne. She was smart, and wasn’t the slightest bit insane as people claimed the Mad King was. With the right support and education, she would’ve made a good queen one day. It was truly a shame…

Still, he’d try to be more open around around Lyaella Snow now. She was so innocent in how the world really worked. And although she understood that cruelty existed judging by the little she’d shared about her life so far, she was still naive on what people could do.

If nothing else, someone had to look out for her. And until Daenerys Targaryen knew about her and could send someone to collect her, Jon would be the one to do so.


End file.
